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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Professor  Ralph  Beals 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/fromfronttrenchpOOandr 


FROM  THE  FRONT 


FROM    THE   FRONT 


TRENCH  POETRY 


SELECTED  BY 

LIEUTENANT  C.  E.  ANDREWS 

AVIATION  SECTION,  SIGNAi  RESERVE  CORPS 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 
BY  THE  EDITOR 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 
W.  P.  H. 


9: 


The  royalties  from  the  sale  of  this 

book  are  to  go  to  the 
BRITISH  RED  CROSS  FUND 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

I  am  grateful  to  the  following  publishers  for 
their  courtesy  in  granting  permission  to  include 
the  poems  to  which  they  own  the  copyright : 

To  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  "I  Have  a 
Rendezvous  with  Death,"  from  Poems  by  Alan 
Seeger;  To  the  John  Lane  Company  for  "At- 
tack!", "Song  of  the  Trench,"  and  "The  Ration 
Rasher,"  from  Songs  from  the  Trenches  by  Capt. 
C.  W.  Blackall,  for  "The  Dead,"  and  "The  Sol- 
dier," from  Collected  Poetns  of  Rupert  Brooke; 
To  Messrs.  Barse  and  Hopkins  for  "The  Volun- 
teer," and  "Wounded,"  from  Rhymes  of  a  Red 
Cross  Man  by  Robert  W.  Service ;  To  the  Hough- 
ton Mifflin  Company  for  "Ammunition  Column," 
and  "Signals,"  from  The  Guns  by  Gilbert 
Frankau ;  To  Cassell  and  Company,  Limited,  for 
the  poems  reprinted  from  the  Ansae  Book;  To 
Erskine  Macdonald,  Limited,  for  "War,"  and 
"When  I  Come  Home,"  from  From  an  Outpost 
and  Other  Poems  by  Leslie  Coulson,  for  "Bal- 
lade of  a  Cathedral  Close,"  from  Poems  by  Lieu- 


Viii  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

tenant  C.  A.  Macartney,  for  "To  Sister  E.  W.," 
from  From  Field  and  Hospital  by  H.  Smalley 
Sarson,  for  "At  Dawn  in  France,"  and  "A  Lark 
above  the  Trenches,"  from  The  Undying  Splen- 
dor by  Sergeant  J.  W.  Streets,  for  "A  Sonnet," 
from  Railhead  by  Lieutenant  Gilbert  Waterhouse, 
for  "Twentieth  Century  Civilization,"  and  "Mem- 
ories," from  Sunrise  Dreams  and  other  Poems  by 
Lieutenant  Eric  Fitzwater  Wilkinson;  To  E.  P. 
Button  &  Company  for  "In  the  Morning,"  "Be- 
fore the  Charge,"  "Letters,"  and  "Matey,"  from 
Soldier  Songs  by  Patrick  MacGill. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Trench  Poetry,  Lieut.  C.  E.  Andrews    .    .    .  xv 

The  Song  of  the  Trench, 

Capt.  C.  W.  Blackall i 

"Fall  In,"  Sergt.  Frank  S.  Brown    ....  5 

The  Volunteer,  Robert  W.  Service    ...  10 

Dawn  in  the  Trenches,  Eric  Thirkell  Cooper  13 

The  Trumpeter,  Corp.  W.  Kersley  Holmes    .  14 

A  Song  of  the  Air,  "Observer,  R.  F.  C."   .    .  16 

Two  Pictures,  "Observer,  R.  F.  C."    ...  18 

The  Sailing  of  the  Fleet, 

Lieut.  N.  M.  F.  Corbett,  R.  N 20 

The  Men  Behind  the  Tube  (Torpedo-Boat 

Destroyer  Flotilla),  Howard  Steele      .     .  22 

The  Hounds  of  the  Night, 

"Etienne"  (Lieut.  R.  N.) 26 

Signals,  Gilbert  Frankau 28 

Ammunition  Column,  Gilbert  Frankau  .  .  31 
Horse-Bathing  Parade, 

Corp.  W.  Kersley  Holmes 34 

The  Mercy  Ship,  Eric  Thirkell  Cooper    .    .  ^6 

The  Bathe,  A.  P.  Herbert 38 

ix 


X  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Marching  Song,  C.  J.  N.  (A.  N.  Z.  A.  C.)       .  40 

My  Rifle,  Sergt.  Joseph  Lee 43 

The  Happy  Warrior   (A  Soliloquy),   Some- 
where in  the  Anzac  Zone, 

M.  R.  (A.  N.  Z.  A.  C.) 46 

"Fags,"  Corp.  Jack  Turner 48 

The  Soldier  Mood,  Corp.  W.  Kersley  Holmes  52 
A  Wail  from  Ordnance,  Lieut.  Kininmouth, 

A.  O.  C 54 

The  Ration  Rasher,  Capt.  C.  W.  Blackall     .  57 

Peter's  Pudding,  Corp.  W.  Kersley  Holmes  59 
Letters  (Vermelles,  August,  1915), 

Patrick  MacGill 61 

No  Man's  Land,  Capt.  J.  H.  Knight-Adkin    .  67 

Night  in  the  Trenches,  Eric  ^hirkell  Cooper  70 

Lines  Written  in  a  Fire  Trench, 

W.  S.  S.  Lyon 72 

A  Quiet  Night,  Ronald  Gurnet 74 

In  No  Man's  Land  with  the  Night  Patrol, 

Capt.  J.  H.  Knight-Adkin 75 

Before  the  Charge  (Loos,  1915), 

Patrick  MacGill 78 

Neuve  Chapelle,  H.  A.  Nesbitt,  M.  A.  .  .  79 
In  the  Morning  (Loos,  1915), 

Patrick  MacGill 81 

Twentieth  Century  Civilization, 

Lieut.  Eric  Fitzwater  Wilkinson,  M.  C.  .     .      85 


CONTENTS  XI 

PAGE 

"Attack  !"  Capt.  C.  W.  Blackall 89 

The  Night  Attack,  Eric  Thirkell  Cooper  .    .  92 

The  Veteran,  Sergt.  Frank  S.  Brown    ...  95 

Wounded,  Robert  W.  Service 100 

Glory,   Sergt.  Frank   S.   Brown 107 

Holding  the  Bridge,  Arnold  F.  Graves    .    .  112 

Next  Morning,  Lieut.  E.  A.  Wodehouse  .     .  118 

A  Dawn  in  France,  Sergt.  J.  W.  Streets  .  .  121 
Lines  Written   Somewhere  in  the  North 

Sea,  Lieut.  N.  M.  F.  Corbett,  R.  N.    .    .  124 

Ballad  of  a  Cathedral  Close, 

Lieut.  C.  A.  Macartney 127 

When  I  Come  Home,  Leslie  Coulson    .    .    .  129 

A  Lark  Above  the  Trenches, 

Sergt.  J.  W.  Streets 131 

Four  Rye  Sheaves,  Sergt.  Joseph  Lee    .    .    .  132 

Brown  Eyes — Song,  Frank  E.  Westbrook  .     .  134 

Hill  60,  C  J.  N.   (A.  N.  Z.  A.  C.)     .    .    .  135 

Envoy,  Capt.  J.  E.  Stewart,  N.  C 136 

To  Sister  E.  W.,  H.  Smalley  Sarson    .     .    .  138 

The  Boys  Out  There,  Frank  E.  Westbrook    .  139 

The  Choice,  Eric  Thirkell  Cooper      ....  141 

Tommy  and  Fritz,  Sergt.  Joseph  Lee  .  .  .  143 
Some  Reflections  on  the  Evacuation, 

A.  P.  Herbert 146 

On  a  Troop  Ship,  1915,  H.  A 150 


xii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

1915,  H.  A.  Nesbitt,  M.  A 152 

Easter  at  Ypres,  W.  S.  S.  Lyon I53 

The  Cathedral,  William  G.  Shakespeare  .     .  155 

Glimpse,  Lieut.  William  Noel  Hodgson    .     .  157 

The  Soldier,  Rupert  Brooke I59 

Our  Fathers,  Capt.  James  Sprent    ....  161 

Before  Action,  Lieut.  William  Noel  Hodgson  163 
At  Sea — Written  on  board  a  transport  in  the 

Mediterranean,  D.  O.  L 165 

A  Confession  of  Faith,  Capt.  James  Sprent  167 

"At  Night  Tide," 

2nd  Lieut.  H.  E.  Whiting-Baker  ....  169 
Sonnet— "Look   Up,   O    Stricken   Eyes   That 

Long  Have  Pored,"  Robert  Nichols     .     .  171 

The  Silence,  R.  J.  Godfrey  (A.  N.  Z.  A.  C.)  172 
"Go   Tell   Yon    Shadow    Stalking   'Neath 

the  Trees,"  Sergt.  J.  W.  Streets  ...  173 
"I  Have  a  Rendezvous  vv^ith  Death," 

Alan  Seeger I74 

The  Dead,  Rupert  Brooke 176 

The  Graves  of  Gallipoli, 

L.  L.  (A.  N.  Z.  A.  C.) 178 

The  Unburied,  M.  R.  (N.  Z.  Headquarters)  181 
"In  Flanders  Fields," 

Lieut.  Col.  John  McCrae 183 

A  Dead  German,  Lieut.  C.  G.  L.  DuCann  .  185 
"I  Tracked  a  Dead  Man  Down  a  Trench," 

W.  S.  S.  Lyon 186 


CONTENTS  Xin 

PAGE 

Fallen,  Corp.  W.  Kersley  Holmes     ....  189 

A  Grave  in  Flanders,  Frederick  George  Scott  191 
Memories, 

Lieut.  Eric  Fitzwater  Wilkinson,  M.  C. .     .  193 

The  Volunteer,  Herbert  Asquith      ....  197 

"Goodbye" — Evacuation  of  Gallipoli,  191 5, 

Frank  E.  Westbrook 199 

Matey  (Cambrin,  May,  1915),  Patrick  MacGill  203 

For  Our  Soldiers  at  the  Front, 

Rev.  Thomas  Tiplady 205 

Sonnet — "Coming    in    Splendour    Thro'    the 

Golden  Gate,"  Lieut.  Gilbert  Waterhouse  207 

War,  Leslie  Coulson 208 

Index  of  Authors 209 

Index  of  First  Lines 217 


TRENCH  POETRY 

The  poetry  written  in  the  trenches  has  become 
one  of  the  most  striking  Hterary  phases  of  the 
War.  Within  the  last  three  years,  thousands 
of  poems  from  the  front  have  appeared  in 
newspapers  and  magazines  throughout  England. 
Many  of  them  later  have  been  collected  in  thin 
little  volumes  by  the  authors,  or  sometimes  they 
have  been  printed  by  friends  as  memorials  to 
soldier-authors  who  have  fallen.  There  are  al- 
ready more  than  a  hundred  such  volumes  and 
others  keep  appearing. 

The  authors,  of  course,  are  not  the  mere  rank 
and  file.  The  average  soldier's  gun  is  mightier 
than  his  pen.  He  fights  or  waits  or  suffers  with- 
out formulating  his  thoughts,  if,  indeed,  he 
thinks  at  all  of  the  real  meaning  of  his  experi- 
ences. The  songs  which  Tommy  Atkins  sings 
are  not  very  interesting  without  Tommy  to  sing 
them.  The  nonsensical  words  of  his  popular 
choruses  are  mere  pegs  upon  which  he  hangs  his 
ideals  of  home,  peace,  or  romance: 

XV 


Xvi  FROM      THE      FRONT 

We've  each  our  Tipperary — near  by  or  wildly 

far; 
For  some  it  means  a  fireside,  for  some  it  means 

a  star ; 
For  some  it  means  a  journey  by  homely  roads 

they  know, 
For  some  a  spirit's  venture  where  none  but  theirs 

may  go. 

But  the  poetry  of  the  trenches  is  written,  most 
of  it,  by  the  men  of  cultivation, — doctors,  dons, 
journalists,  actors,  university  students.  Though 
two  or  three  of  the  volumes — and  these  among 
the  best — are  from  men  who  had  been  navvies, 
miners,  and  farm  roustabouts,  for  the  most  part 
the  authors  have  written  verse  before. 

Men  of  a  thoughtful  turn  of  mind,  or  with  an 
eye  for  the  significance  of  facts,  feel  the  desire 
for  self-expression  in  the  midst  of  their  experi- 
ences. And  the  forms  of  expression  for  men  of 
action  are  naturally  the  brief  ones,  famikr  let- 
ters and  short  lyrics.  These  are  written  in  mo- 
ments of  snatched  leisure,  sometimes  in  a  camp 
or  billet  or  dugout,  or  even  in  a  fire-trench ;  and 
many  are  written  to  while  away  the  enforced 
leisure  of  a  convalescent  hospital.  But  little  of 
this  poetry  is  "emotion  recollected  in  tranquil- 
lity." It  is  the  expression  of  men  who  in  the 
midst  of  action   see  the  picturesque  or  philo- 


TRENCH      POETRY  xvii 

sophic  aspect  of  their  experience  and  try  to  re- 
cord it.  Sergeant  John  WilHam  Streets,  who 
was  killed  last  year,  writing  of  his  own  poems 
said :  "They  were  inspired  while  I  was  in  the 
trenches,  where  I  have  been  so  busy  that  I  have 
had  little  time  to  polish  them.  I  have  tried  to 
picture  some  thoughts  that  pass  through  a  man's 
brain  when  he  dies.  I  may  not  see  the  end  of 
the  poems,  but  hope  to  live  to  do  so.  We  sol- 
diers have  our  views  of  life  to  express,  though 
the  boom  of  death  is  in  our  ears.  We  try  to 
convey  something  of  what  we  feel  in  this  great 
conflict  to  those  who  think  of  us,  and  sometimes, 
alas!  mourn  our  loss.  We  desire  to  let  them 
know  that  in  the  midst  of  our  keenest  sadness 
for  the  joy  of  life  we  leave  behind,  we  go  to  meet 
death  grim-lipped,  clear-eyed  and  resolute-heart- 
ed." A  poem  written  within  the  sound  of  guns 
is  rarely  a  great  contribution  to  literature,  and  a 
critical  reader  may  find  barely  a  half  dozen 
poems  in  these  volumes  which  he  calls  great 
poetry.  For  example,  not  even  Alan  Seeger  or 
Rupert  Brooke,  the  best  known  of  the  soldier 
poets,  attained  the  superb  excellence  of  Mr. 
Masefield's  "August  1914."  One  must  remember 
that  the  finest  poems  of  the  Civil  War  were  not 
written  by  the  "forgers  of  experience,"  but  by 
"men  with  the  sense  of  words," — Whitman,  Low- 


XVIH  FROM       THE      FRONT 

ell  and  Emerson.  Probably  there  is  something 
in  the  Wordsworthian  association  of  tranquillity 
and  poetic  composition.  Trench  verse  is  usually 
the  work  of  men  who,  though  not  trained  and 
critical  poets,  are  still  impelled  to  write  of  what 
they  see  and  feel.  They  wisely  make  few  at- 
tempts in  the  exalted  vein.  The  splendid  bursts 
of  patriotism  are  only  for  the  few  great  poets  in 
their  finer  moments ;  for  such  poems  require  not 
CDfily  exalted  feeling,  but  the  sureness  and  com- 
mand of  the  highest  art.  And  no  failure  can  be 
more  complete  than  the  failure  to  achieve  the 
high  style.  These  soldier  poets  wisely  do  not 
attempt  it.  The  poetasters  at  home  write  of 
war  in  grandiose  periodic  cadences ;  the  poetry 
of  men  who  fight  has  Httle  of  rhetoric,  few  fine- 
sounding  words.  They  write  of  what  they  see, 
hear,  feel,  and  think,  in  direct  and  vivid  lan- 
guage ;  they  are  not  afraid  of  dialect,  slang,  or 
even  vulgarity. 

Though  one  must  not  expect  to  find  many 
poems  that  stand  out  individually  as  great,  a 
volume  of  verse  chosen  from  these  little  books 
by  men  whose  names,  with  rare  exceptions,  the 
kingdom  of  letters  has  recognized,  can  give  one 
a  more  vivid  sense  of  the  actualities  of  war,  its 
transfiguring  glories  and  unnamable  horrors,  than 
hundreds  of  reports,  accounts,  and  discussions. 


TRENCH      POETRY  xix 

These  poems  show  the  spirit  which  actuates  the 
men ;  the  men  themselves,  the  facts  of  their  daily 
life,  their  duties,  their  humor,  their  sufferings, 
their  recreations;  the  madness,  and  horror  of 
the  attack  itself ;  what  soldiers  think  about  when 
they  are  alone ;  and  also  their  heart-uttered  mem- 
ories of  dear  comrades  fallen. 

Many  of  these  poems  are  bits  of  impression- 
istic description,  what  daily  scenes  at  the  front 
look  like  to  men  who  are  part  of  them.  These 
are  sharply  etched  pictures  of  vivid  realities ;  they 
give  us  the  sensations  of  men  on  duty  in  a  listen- 
ing post,  a  scene  in  a  dugout,  dawn  or  night  in 
the  trenches,  planes  dropping  down  on  the  aero- 
drome after  a  reconnaissance,  the  distribution  of 
mail  after  dark,  a  signal  post  or  a  battalion  head- 
quarters during  an  action.  Among  the  poets  who 
do  this  sort  of  thing  best  are  Captain  Knight- 
Adkin,  whose  contributions  to  the  "Spectator" 
have  been  widely  quoted,  Eric  Thirkell  Cooper, 
author  of  "Soliloquies  of  a  Subaltern,"  and  Gil- 
bert Frankau,  whose  volume  "The  Guns"  is  one 
of  the  most  real  pictures  that  have  come  from  the 
front. 

Sometimes  with  this  strong  sense  of  fact  there 
is  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  beauty  and  "magic" 
which  may  be  anywhere  if  one's  eyes  can  see 
more  than  the  grim  actualities.    There  are  gleams 


XX  FROM       THE       FRONT 

of  moonlight  on  wire  entanglements  and  gorgeous 
pyrotechnics  in  red  and  white  flares  and  star 
shells  that  light  the  way  to  aeath.  Patrick  Mac- 
Gill,  author  of  "Soldier  Songs,"  sees  charming 
fancies  in  the  glow-worms  and  toad-stools 
around  him  as  he  watches  and  listens  through 
the  night : 

But  these  things  you'll  see  if  you  come  out  with 
me, 

And  sit  by  my  side  in  a  shell-shovelled  hole, 
Where  the  fairy-bells  croon  to  the  ivory  moon 

When  the  soldier  is  out  on  a  listening-patrol. 

Then  there  are  the  romantic  poets  who  write 
only  of  the  beauty.  They  eagerly  look  for  it  as 
a  relief  from  the  grimness  and  pain  of  their  sur- 
roundings. They  sing  of  a  riot  of  red  poppies 
in  a  Flanders  field,  or  a  lark  whose  dawn  song 
is  wholly  oblivious  to  the  mortal  madness  below 
him.  These  themes  are  great  favorites  with  the 
trench  poets.  A  more  unusual  subject  is  "The 
Horse  Bathing  Parade"  of  Corporal  J.  Kersley 
Holmes,  who  shows  a  painter's  eye  for  fine  color 
effects.  A  theme  which  several  of  the  poets 
have  chosen  is  some  wonderful  old  chateau 
haunted  by  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  dear 
dead  chatelaines  of  another  time,  now  inhabited 
by  hurrying  aids  or  swearing  sergeants.     This 


TRENCH      POETRY  xxi 

theme,  rich  in  fine  sentiment,  appears  at  its  best 
in  Alan  Seeger's  two  rare  sonnets  on  "Belling- 
lise"  : 

Here,   where   in   happier   times   the  huntsman's 
horn 
Echoing   from    far   made    sweet    midsummer 
eves. 
Now  serried  cannon  thunder  night  and  morn. 
Tearing    with    iron    the    greenwood's    tender 
leaves. 

The  finer  spirits  like  Seeger  who  go  through  the 
world  on  a  knight-errant  quest  for  beauty  find  it 
even  where  most  men  see  but  ugliness  and  pain. 

The  realistic  poets  do  their  best  work  in  scenes 
of  the  attack.  There  are,  naturally,  hundreds  of 
these  descriptions — every  kind  of  attack  and 
every  sort  of  moment.  Sergeant  Frank  Brown's 
"Glory"  describes  how  "five  volunteers  for  hell" 
rescued  a  Maxim  gun  left  stranded  after  "a. 
little  set-back."  Arnold  Graves'  "Holding  the 
Bridge"  is  an  exciting  narrative  of  an  incident 
that  shows  that  the  individual  man  may  be  of  no 
less  importance  today  than  in  a  twelfth  century 
fight.  Lieutenant  Eric  Wilkinson's  "Twentieth 
Century  Civilization"  tells  how  it  feels  to  receive 
the  enemy's  attack,  and  the  last  stanza  from  Cap- 
tain C.  W.  Blackall's  "Attack!"  shows  how  one 
feels  after  successfully  taking  a  trench.   These  are 


XXll  FROM       THE      FRONT 

poems  of  war  written  by  men  who  know ;  every 
phrase  rings  as  a  harsh  and  ugly  fact.  And  with 
all  that,  stands  out  the  grit  and  heroism  of  the 
men. 

But  even  in  the  midst  of  a  fight  there  can  be 
humor  in  the  trenches.  It  is  not  a  forced  humor 
either;  the  jokes  suggest  the  natural  remarks  of 
men  who  have  been  able  to  keep  their  sense  of 
proportion.  A  feeling  of  physical  fitness,  too, 
makes  one  willing  to  enjoy  what  there  is  in  the 
present  moment.  The  "Anzac  Book,"  a  collec- 
tion of  verse,  prose,  and  drawings  by  the  men  in 
the  peninsula  of  Gallipoli,  shows  how  much  fun 
is  possible  even  in  the  face  of  suffering,  death, 
and  defeat.  As  examples  of  this.  Lieutenant 
Kininmouth's  "Wail  from  Ordnance"  and  M. 
R.'s  "Happy  Warrior"  are  included  in  the  present 
volume.  Patrick  MacGill's  fine  Irish  wit  delight- 
fully permeates  his  work,  and  Sergeant  Joseph 
Lee's  "Ballads  of  Battle"  has  some  very  good 
things.  Men's  sense  of  humor  is  hard  to  kill; 
sometimes  it  thrives  rollickingly  in  the  trenches 
— witness  Captain  Bruce  Bairnsfather ! 

The  soldier's  meditations  when  he  is  alone 
are — like  those  of  other  people — on  the  subjects 
of  love,  home,  and  himself.  There  are  many 
poems  expressing  what  he   feels  through  long 


TRENCH      POETRY  xxiii 

cold  watches  and  heart-breaking  silences — 
thoughts  of  quiet  English  lanes,  Australian 
farms,  or  Canadian  lakes  and  pine  forests; 
thoughts  of  brown  eyes,  of  farewells,  or  of  re- 
gretted moments.  Poems  of  this  sort  are  writ- 
ten, of  course,  at  all  times  in  absence,  but  these, 
through  the  circumstances,  have  a  special  in- 
terest for  us.  Of  the  thoughtful  poems  on  death 
and  self,  the  world  has  already  accepted  Alan 
Seeger's  "I  have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death"  and 
Rupert  Brooke's  "The  Soldier"  as  truly  great. 
Another  poet,  Sergeant  J.  W.  Streets,  author  of 
"The  Undying  Splendor,"  has  done,  among  other 
things,  a  sonnet-sequence,  which  should  give  him 
a  place  among  these  greatest  soldier  poets.  His 
volume  reflects  an  intense  love  of  life  together 
with  a  resolute  facing  of  death,  a  spirit  which 
links  him  with  Alan  Seeger. 

The  thought  of  death  runs  through  all  the  vol- 
umes from  the  trenches.  There  are  many  elegies, 
both  general  and  personal,  and  many  a  gay  poem 
goes  into  the  minor  for  a  single  stanza.  Corporal 
Lee  prefaces  his  volume  with — 

I  writ  these  songs  in  a  dead  man's  book ; 
I  stole  the  strain  from  a  dead  man's  look; 
And  if  much  of  death  there  may  seem  to  be 
'Tis  because  the  dead  are  so  dear  to  me. 


XXIV  FROM      THE      FRONT 

I  do  not  mean  that  the  body  of  this  verse  is 
gloomy  in  tone.  The  thought  of  death  does 
not  appear  as  a  "Thanatopsis"  mood  of  intro- 
spection. Death  is  merely  a  great  fact  with 
which  one  becomes  familiar,  so  familiar  that  it 
may  be  even  jested  with.  The  soldier's  atti- 
tude is  that  of  a  man  who  plays  his  game  and 
accepts  all  its  conditions.  Captain  C.  W.  Black- 
all's  "Song  of  the  Trench"  puts  it  well : 

Perhaps  a  bullet  may  find  its  mark, 

And  then  there's  a  funeral  after  dark; 

And  you  say,  as  you  lay  him  beneath  the  sod, 

A  sportsman's  soul  has  gone  to  his  God. 

Behind  the  trench  in  the  open  ground, 

There's  a  little  cross  and  a  little  mound ; 

And  if  at  your  heart-strings  you  feel  a  wrench, 

Remember  he  died  for  his  blooming  trench — 

Yes,  he  died  like  a  man  for  his  trench. 

In  the  elegies,  with  the  mood  of  intense  personal 
loss  there  is  this  same  attitude  of  acceptance — 
no  revolt  against  fate,  or  protest  against  war  or 
the  world.  These  poets  are  also  soldiers.  Their 
elegies  are  perhaps  the  best  work  of  the  trench 
poets.  Every  volume  has  several  of  them,  with 
titles  like  "Fallen,"  "My  Chum,"  "Missing,"  "In 
Flanders  Fields,"  "Memories,"  "The  Unburied." 
They  are  straightforward  and  simple,  most  of 
them,  with  the  sentiment  of  men  who  feel  more 


TRENCH      POETRY  XXV 

than  they  show.  The  Australian  Frank  E.  West- 
brook's  "Good-Bye,"  which  was  written  at  Gal- 
lipoH,  distinctly  has  this  mood ;  and  I  know  of  no 
poem  with  a  pathos  that  so  takes  one  by  the 
throat  as  Patrick  MacGill's  "Matey."  For  an 
elegy  in  the  dignified  style  for  a  public  occasion 
we  have,  in  Alan  Seeger's  "Ode  in  Memory  of 
the  American  Volunteers  Fallen  for  France."  an 
ode  equalled  but  two  or  three  times  in  all  Ameri- 
can literature. 

In  the  poetry  of  Seeger,  who  I  think  stands  out 
as  chief  of  the  fighting  poets,  English  or  Ameri- 
can, there  is  preeminently  a  sense  of  the  exalt- 
ing power  of  the  war  on  men's  minds.  Beyond 
the  mere  praise  of  the  accepted  soldier  virtues, 
he  sings  the  choicer  spirit's  lofty  freedom  from 
the  meaner  interests  of  the  world.  He  sees  the 
fighting  hosts  transfigured  with  a  grander  cos- 
mic beauty ;  they  are  playing  the  great  drama  of 
the  universe  as  its  Author  planned  it;  they  are 
moved  by  the  forces  which  guide  Arcturus  with 
his  sons.  This  larger  vision  in  which  men  tran- 
scend themselves  and  see  all  life  in  true  propor- 
tion comes  seldom  even  to  poets  in  times  of 
peace.    But  a  sense  of 

— kinship  with  the  stars  that  only  war 
Is  great  enough  to  lift  men's  spirit  to. 


XXVI  FROM       THE       FRONT 

more  and  more  recurs  in  recent  literature. 
Sergeant  Streets  has  it  in  these  lines  from  the 
"Requiem" : 

Theirs  is  the  mighty  music  of  the  fadeless  stars ; 
The  chant  of  Life,  exultant  with  high  ecstasy; 
The  strength  of   suffering  gods  who  toil  with 

many  scars 
To  wrest  promethean  fire  for  dead  humanity. 
Beyond  our  ken,  beyond  the  limit  of  the  years 
They  sweep  into  the  soul  the   freedom  of  the 

spheres. 

Many  of  the  finer  war  poems  present  the  con- 
flict as  a  merging  of  the  individual  into  the  spirit 
of  his  race — the  mood  of  Hardy's  novels,  or 
the  race  merged  into  the  soul  of  humanity — the 
mood  of  Whitman's  poetry.  This  unity  of  past 
and  present  in  the  ever  repeated  struggles  of 
history  appears  in  Corporal  Lee's  "1815-1915: 
One  Hundred  Years  Ago  Today, — To  My 
Grandfather  Who  Fought  at  Waterloo,"  and 
again  in  Corporal  Holmes'  "Somewhere  in 
France" : 

Long,  long  ago  the  English  hosts  in  sunshine  and 

in  rain, 
Came  tramping  where  their  stubborn  sons  now 

march  to  war  again. 


TRENCH      POETRY  XXVll 

Their  bowmen  and  their  halberdiers  in  mud  and 

mist  and  snow, 
Went   swinging   stoutly   forward   as   our  khaki 

columns  go; 
The  poplars  watched  the  knights  ride  by  with 

sword  and  mace  and  lance, 
As  they  watched  us  through  the  sleet-storm  in 

these  leafless  woods  of  France. 


An  exalted  patriotism  in  which  the  poet  rises 
above  his  own  personality  in  the  great  desire  to 
be  part  of  the  eternal  spirit  of  England  is  the 
theme  of  Rupert  Brooke's  glorious  sonnet  "The 
Soldier" ;  and  the  thought  of  England  on  the 
eve  of  war  united  to  the  England  of  all  other 
older  wars,  through  the  repeated  farewells  and 
repeated  sacrifices  which  the  same  ancient  soil 
has  known  from  age  to  age,  is  the  mood  of  the 
greatest  poem  of  recent  years,  Mr.  Masefield's 
"August,  1914." 

War  is  having  an  exalted  effect  on  men's  hearts 
when  they  think  in  terms  of  infinite  relation- 
ships. And  we  see  this  effect  in  the  letters  as 
well  as  in  the  poems  of  the  soldier  poets.  "If  I 
should  fall  do  not  grieve  for  me.  I  shall  be  one 
with  the  sun  and  the  flowers,"  wrote  Leslie  Coul- 
son,  author  of  "From  an  Outpost,"  in  one  of  his 
last  letters.  This  is  a  feeling  that  comes  to  one 
who  thinks  of  the  thousand  struggles  of  history 


XXVlll  FROM       THE      FRONT 

and  the  million  repetitions  of  heroic  deaths,  while 
Nature,  the  Neutral,  looks  on  impartially;  the 
stars  that  shone  on  Loos  and  Neuve  Chapelle 
looked  coldly  down  on  Cressy  and  Waterloo. 
This  cosmic  sense  revealed  to  the  chosen  souls 
who  fight  at  the  front  may  reflect  through  the 
world  behind  the  lines  and  make  men  rise  to 
interests  greater  than  their  own,  and  see  their 
earth  in  a  larger  perspective. 


FROM  THE  FRONT 


FROM  THE  FRONT 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  TRENCH 

December,  ipi4 

This  is  the  song  of  the  blooming  trench: 
It's  sung  by  us  and  it's  sung  by  the  French ; 
It's  probably  sung  by  the  German  Huns ; 
But  it  isn't  all  beer,  and  skittles,  and  buns. 
It's  a  song  of  water,  and  mud  and  slime, 
And  keeping  your  eyes  skinned  all  the  time. 
Though  the  putrid  "bully"  may  kick  up  a  stench, 
Remember,  you've  got  to  stick  to  your  trench — 
Yes,  stick  like  glue  to  your  trench. 

You  dig  while  it's  dark,  and  you  work  while  it's 

light, 
And  then  there's  the  "listening  post"  at  night. 


2  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Though  you're  soaked  to  the  skin  and  chilled  to 

the  bone; 
Though  your  hands  are  like  ice,  and  your  feet 

like  stone; 
Though  your  watch  is  long,  and  your  rest  is  brief. 
And  you  pray  like  hell  for  the  next  relief; 
Though  the  wind  may  howl,  and  the  rain  may 

drench, 
Remember,  you've  got  to  stick  to  your  trench- 
Yes,  stick  like  mud  to  your  trench. 

Perhaps  a  bullet  may  find  its  mark. 
And  then  there's  a  funeral  after  dark; 
And  you  say,  as  you  lay  him  beneath  the  sod, 
A  sportsman's  soul  has  gone  to  his  God. 
Behind  the  trench,  in  the  open  ground. 
There's  a  little  cross  and  a  little  mound; 
And  if  at  your  heart-strings  you  feel  a  wrench, 
Remember,  he  died  for  his  blooming  trench — 
Yes,  he  died  like  a  man  for  his  trench. 


SONG      OF      THE      TRENCH  3 

There's  a  rush  and  a  dash,  and  they're  at  your 

wire. 
And  you  open  the  hell  of  a  rapid  fire; 
The  Maxims  rattle,  the  rifles  flash, 
And  the  bombs  explode  with  a  sickening  crash. 
You  give  them  lead,  and  you  give  them  steel. 
Till  at  last  they  waver,  and  turn,  and  reel. 
You've  done  your  job — there  was  never  a  blench 
You've  given  them  hell,  and  you've  saved  your 

trench ; 
By  God,  you've  stuck  to  your  trench ! 

The  daylight  breaks  on  the  rain-soaked  plain 

(For  some  it  will  never  break  again), 

And  you  thank  your  God,  as  you're  "standing 

to," 
You'd  your  bayonet  clean,  and  your  bolt  worked 

true. 
For  your  comrade's  rifle  had  jammed  and  stuck. 


4  FROM      THE      FRONT 

And  he's  lying  there,  with  his  brains  in  the  muck. 
So  love  your  gun — as  you  haven't  a  wench — 
And  she'll  save  your  life  in  the  blooming  trench — 
Yes,  save  your  life  in  the  trench. 

Capt.  C.  W.  Blackalu 


'TALLIN!" 

Oh!  we  are  a  ragged,  motley  crew, 
Each  with  a  tale  to  tell 
Of  a  life  of  eaise — a  life  of  toil, 
A  life  lived  out  in  hell. 
Whatever  befall  at  the  bugle  call 
We'll  do  our  business  well. 

The  bugle  bawls  a  sharp  "Fall  In," 

The  section  sergeants  shout; 

A  stampede  on  the  markers, 

And  the  company  turns  out. 

And  now  you  have  us  into  line, 

Just  cast  your  eye  within, 

And  read  the  tale  of  these  soldiers  hale 

Who  answered  the  cry  "Fall  In!" 
5 


6  FROM       THE       FRONT 

That  guy  with  the  coat  split  up  the  back, 

And  his  forage  cap  aslant, 

Is  a  minister's  son — and  a  son  of  a  gun. 

You  should  hear  the  bounder  rant 

When  the  rations  aren't  quite  up  to  scratch, 

Or  his  rifle  jams  his  thumb. 

He  slips  a  cog,  and  a  language  fog 

Spurts  up  and  begins  to  hum. 

The  other,  with  his  mustache  trimmed. 

And  puttees  that  need  a  shave, 

Is  a  slum  child  from  Toronto, 

But  a  splendid  chap  is  Dave. 

His  upper  lip  is  his  idol, 

Boot  dubbin   is   its  pomade; 

He's  tried  to  sup  from  a  mustache  cup — 

But  he  knows  his  work  with  a  spade. 

There's  another  chap  down  on  the  left 
Who  tacks  M.A.  to  his  name; 


"fall    in!" 

He'll  talk  of  art  or  the  price  of  wheat — 

To  him  it's  all  the  same. 

His  looks  are  insignificant, 

In  a  battered  pair  of  jeans, 

No  one  would  think  that  such  a  gink 

Was  a  graduate  of  Queen's. 

The  sergeant  of  our  section  is 
A  most  peculiar  cuss; 
He  wears  a  serge  sans  chevrons, — 
No  need  of  them  with  us. 
His  rifle's  carefully  curried, 
He's  a  voice  like  Kingdom  Come ; 
He  was  a  clod  who  carried  a  hod, 
But  can  talk  a  drill  book  dumb. 

The  corporal  with  the  greasy  clothes, 

And  an  eye  of  ebony  black 

(He  got  it  in  an  argument 

With  the  thief  who  stole  his  pack)  ; 


8  FROM      THE      FRONT 

His  office-pallored  face  is  now 
Red  dyed  with  honest  tan; 
A  lawyer  he  that  was  to  be 
A  city's  coming  man. 

Down  in  the  motor  transport  lines 
You  will  find  a  goggled  runt 
Who  drives  an  ammunition  van 
Thro'  mud  lakes  at  the  front. 
He  always  has  a  life-sized  grouch; 
He  grumbles  at  his  fare ; 
His  van  floor  ain't  a  feather  bed — 
And  he's  a  millionaire. 

That  fellow  in  the  ulster, 

Which  has  seen  most  cruel  use. 

And  a  pair  of  squelching  rubber  boots 

Which  leak  without  excuse, 

He  used  to  be  a  Civil  clerk, 

Perched  high  upon  a  stool, 


"fall     in!" 

But  dropped  his  tome  to  learn  to  comb 
An  ammunition  mule. 

Yon  bulldog  face  with  the  deep-cleft  chin 

Is  owned  by  a  miner  old, 

Who  has  roasted  in  California 

And  frozen  in 'Klondike  cold. 

His  thirst  is  a  thing  to  conjure  with; 

He  shoots  like  the  bolt  of  Fate; 

The  dug-out  roars  with  his  husky  snores 

When  he's  back  from  patrolling  late. 

Oh!  zve  are  a  jolly,  motley  crew. 

With  many  a  tale  to  tell 

Of  a  life  of  love,  a  life  of  hate, 

A  life  lived  out  in  hell. 

Whatever  we've  been,  wipe  out  the  sin — 

We'll  do  our  business  well. 

Sergt.  Frank  S.  Brown. 
(Killed  in  action,  Feb.  s,  iQ^S-) 


THE  VOLUNTEER 

Sez  I :    My  Country  Calls  ?    Well,  let  it  call. 

I  grins  perlitely  and  declines  wiv  thanks. 

Go,  let  'em  plaster  every  blighted  wall, 

'Ere's  one  they  don't  stampede  into  the  ranks. 

Them  politicians  with  their  greasy  ways ; 

Them  empire-grabbers — fight  for  'em  ?    No  fear ! 

I've  seen  this  mess  a-comin'  from  the  days 

Of  Algyserious  and  Aggydear : 

I've  felt  me  passion  rise  and  swell, 

But  .  .  .  wot  the  'ell,  Bill?    Wot  the  'ell? 

Sez  I :   My  Country  ?  Mine  ?  I  likes  their  cheek. 
Me  mud-bespattered  by  the  cars  they  drive, 
Wot  makes  my  measly  thirty  bob  a  week, 
And  sweats  red  blood  to  keep  meself  alive! 
Fight  for  the  right  to  slave  that  they  may  spend, 


THE      VOLUNTEER  II 

Them  in  their  mansions,  me  'ere  in  my  slum? 
No,  let  'em  fight  wot's  something  to  defend: 
But  me,  I've  nothin' — let  the  Kaiser  come. 

And  so  I  cusses  'ard  and  well. 

But  .  .  .  wot  the  'ell.  Bill?    Wot  the  'ell? 

Sez  I :    If  they  would  do  the  decent  thing, 
And  shield  the  missis  and  the  little  'uns, 
Why,  even  I  might  shout  "God  save  the  King," 
And  face  the  chances  of  them  'ungry  guns. 
But  we've  got  three,  another  on  the  way ; 
It's  that  wot  makes  me  snarl  and  set  me  jor ; 
The  wife  and  nippers,  wot  of  'em,  I  say. 
If  I  gets  knocked  out  in  this  blasted  war? 

Gets  proper  busted  by  a  shell. 

But  .  .  .  wot  the  'ell.  Bill?    Wot  the  'ell? 

Ay,  wot  the  'ell's  the  use  of  all  this  talk? 
To-day  some  boys  in  blue  was  passin'  me. 


12  FROM       THE      FRONT 

And  some  of  'em  they  'ad  no  legs  to  walk, 
And  some  of  'em  they  'ad  no  eyes  to  see. 
And — well,  I  couldn't  look  'em  in  the  face, 
And  so  I'm  goin',  goin'  to  declare 
I'm  under  forty-one  and  take  me  place 
To  face  the  music  with  the  bunch  out  there. 

A  fool,  you  say!    Maybe  you're  right. 

I'll  'ave  no  peace  unless  I  fight. 

I've  ceased  to  think;  I  only  know 

I've  gotta  go.  Bill,  gotta  go. 

Robert  W.  Service. 


DAWN  IN  THE  TRENCHES 

Dawn  o'  day!    And  birds  a-singing; 
Sniping  starts  along  the  line; 
"Stand  to,  all,"  comes  quickly  ringing, 
"Pray  the  coming  day  is  fine; 
Mind  the  pools  from  last  night's  drizzle. 
Post  '43y-sentries'  straight  away — " 
Rifles  cleaned  whilst  rashers  frizzle — 
So  to  us  comes  break  o'  day, 

Eric  Thirkell  Cooper. 


13 


THE  TRUMPETER 

We  hear  him  daily,  far  too  soon, 

Announcing  day  begun, 

Before  the  setting  of  the  moon, 

Or  rising  of  the  sun — 

Forth  from  our  dreams  he  bids  us  wake, 

And  find  our  boots  for  Britain's  sake. 

His  plangent  music  drives  us  out 

To  shiver  on  parade; 

All  day  it  orders  us  about. 

And  has  to  be  obeyed — 

We  take  our  breakfast,  dinner,  tea 

At  mercy  of  his  melody. 

The  regiment  mustered  for  a  drill 

Must  note  his  briefest  call ; 
14 


THE       TRUMPETER  15 

They  halt  or  gallop  at  his  will, 
The  master  of  us  all — 
His  hps  control  the  fearsome  force 
That  represents  five  hundred  horse. 

And  what  of  him,  the  man  behind 
This  brazen  voice  of  power? 
Is  he  of  superhuman  kind, 
Some  warrior  grim  and  dour, 
Who  thus  maneuvers  with  a  breath 
Us,  who'd  obey  him  to  the  death? 

He's  five  feet  high,  or  rather  less, 
A  laddie  pale  and  slim, 
Who's  seen,  but  seldom  heard,  unless 
His  trumpet  speaks  for  him — 
He  wakes  us  early,  yet,  poor  elf, 
Perforce  must  be  first  up  himself ! 

Corp.  W.  Kersley  Holmes. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  AIR 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Plane — 
The  creaking,  shrieking  plane. 
The  throbbing,  sobbing  plane, 
And  the  moaning,  groaning  wires 
The   engine — missing  again ! 
One  cylinder  never  fires ! 
Hey  ho !  for  the  Plane ! 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Man — 
The  driving,  striving  man, 
The  chosen,  frozen  man : — 
The  pilot,  the  man-at-the-wheel, 
Whose  limit  is  all  that  he  can, 
And  beyond,  if  the  need  is  real! 

Hey  ho !  for  the  Man ! 
I6 


A      SONG      OF      THE      AIR  I? 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Gun — 
The  muttering,  stuttering  gun, 
The  maddening,  gladdening  gun  : — 
That  chuckles  with  evil  glee 
At  the  last,  long  dive  of  the  Hun, 
With  its  end  in  eternity ! 
Hey  ho !  for  the  Gun ! 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Air — 
The  lifting,  drifting  air. 
The  eddying,  steadying  air. 
The  wine  of  its  limitless  space : — 
May  it  nerve  us  at  last  to  dare 
Even  death  with  undaunted  face ! 
Hey  ho !  for  the  Air ! 

"Observer,  R.  F.  C." 


TWO  PICTURES 

Dawn  .  .  . 
And  the  dewy  plain 
Awakes  to  life  and  sound — 
Where  on  the  flying-ground 
The  ghostly  hangars  blaze  with  lights  again. 
The  giant  birds  of  prey 
Creep   forth  to  a  new  day, 
And  one  by  one, 
As  morning  gilds  the  dome, 
Leave  the  gray  aerodrome — 
— The  day's  begun. 

Dusk  .  .  . 

And  the  vanish'd  sun 

Still  streaks  the  evening  skies: 

Below,  the  prone  Earth  lies 


TWO      PICTURES  19 

Darken'd,  wherever  warring  Night  has  won. 
The  'planes,  returning,  show 
Deep  black  in  the  afterglow, 
And  one  by  one 

Drop  down  from  the  higher  airs, 
— Down,  down,  the  invisible  stairs — 
— The  day  is  done. 

"Observer,  R.  F.  C." 


THE  SAILING  OF  THE  FLEET 

A  signal  flutters  at  the  Flagship's  fore, 

And  a  deep  pulse 

Stirs  in  the  mighty  hulls 

Slow  wheeling  seaward,  where,  beyond  the  Bar, 

Half  veiled  in  gloom, 

Those  messengers  of  doom 

The  lean  Destroyers  are. 

From  the  thronged  piers 
Faintly,   the  sound  of  cheers 
Tossed  by  the  winds  afar  .  .  . 

Witli  gathering  speed 

The  gray,  grim  shapes  proceed — 

The  Might  of  England — to  uphold  the  Law 

'Gainst  blackest  treachery. 


THE     SAILING     OF     THE     FLEET    21 

And  the  same  courage  high 
That  fired  those  valiant  hearts  at  Trafalgar, 
Burning  from  age  to  age, 
Our  proudest  heritage. 
Pierces  disquieting  war-clouds  like  a  star, 
As,  burdened  with  a  Nation's  hopes  and  fears, 
The  Battle  Fleet  of  England  sweeps  to  war. 
Lieut.  N.  M.  F.  Corbett,  R.N. 


THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  TUBE 
{Torpedo-Boat  Destroyer  Flotilla) 

The  battleship,  she  rules  the  seas; 

The  cruiser  helps  her  out; 

The  men  that  man  her  hungry  guns 

Are  men  indeed  and  stout; 

But  none  of  oil  those  sailor-men, 

With  steady  brain  and  eye, 

Can  teach  the  swift  destroyer's  crezv 

The  way  to  hght  and  die! 

While  the  man  in  the  cruiser  is  sleepin', 
The  rain  drummin'  over  'is  'ead, 
The  little  destroyers  are  creepin', 
The  mouth  o'  their  stacks  glowin'  red, 
Out  through  the  night  an'  the  darkness, 

22 


THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  TUBE  23 

Lashed  by  the  spray  an'  the  wind, 

For  we're  out  an'  away  at  the  break  o'  the  day 

A  leavin'  the  slow  'uns  be'ind! 

If  the  man  in  the  cruiser  is  dyin'. 

The  yell  o'  'is  armament  done. 

The  crash  o'  the  wireless  acryin' 

Will  bring  us  around  on  the  run. 

We  don't  do  the  most  o'  the  shoutin' ! 

We  iight  an'  we  give  it  'em  'ot, 

For  it's  God  for  the  best  at  the  tube-layin'  test 

An'  'ell  for  the  one  wot  gets  shot. 

When  the  panicky  searchlights  are  flittin' 
An'  the  seas  are  aflood  wi'  the  light, 
The  fear-maddened  guns  begin  spittin' 
As  soon  as  we  come  into  sight. 
We  'erd  them  like  sheep  as  we  kill  them, 
They  glow  in  their  'alos  o'  flame: 


24  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Then  it's  death  at  a  blow  for  the  man  'oo  is  slow 
An'  life  for  the  man  'oo  can  aim! 

We  are  pawns  in  the  game — never  counted — 

But  pawns  that  have  learned  'ow  to  die. 

For  when  ev'ry  gun  is  dismounted 

An'  all  o'  the  tubes  is  awry, 

The  boats  driftin'  wrecks  on  the  combers 

An'  water  aroar  in  the  hold, 

We   stand   till   we    drown   an'   the   vessel   goes 

down — 
The  same  as  our  fathers  of  old ! 

The  bugles  are  wailin'  "Good-bye !" 
There's  blood  in  the  sea  an'  the  sky, 
Keep  touch  as  you  go — What's  that  thunder  be- 
low ? 
The  bulk-heads  what's  gone — an'  now  we  must 
go 


THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  TUBE  25 

The  same  as  our  fathers  of  old — 

Cap  the  quarter-deck  ! — 

The  same  as  our  fathers  of  old ! 

The  battleship,  she  rules  the  seas; 

The  cruiser  helps  her  out; 

The  men  that  man  her  hungry  guns 

Are  men  indeed  and  stout; 

But  none  of  all  those  sailor-men, 

With  steady  brain  and  eye. 

Can  teach  the  swift  destroyer's  crew 

The  way  to  fight  and  die! 

Howard  Steele. 


THE  HOUNDS  OF  THE  NIGHT 

As   after   the   rains, 

On  the  Athi  plains 

The  wild  dog  streams 

In  his  hunting  teams 

And  seeks  the  feeding  buck, 

So  after  the  fight, 

In  the  gloom  of  night. 

The  destroyer  hounds 

In  leaping  bounds 

Cast  round  to  try  their  luck. 

As  a  grazing  herd 

At  their  leader's  word 

Will  hark  for  the  beat 

Of  the  padding  feet, 
26 


THE     HOUNDS     OF     THE     NIGHT    2y 

That  tells  the  pack  is  near, 
So  big  ships  at  night 
Seek  the  patch  o'  white 
That  will  show  the  track 
Of  that  hunting  pack, 
And  how  it  is  they  steer. 

There  is  little  sound 
When  a  hunting  hound 
Chokes  out  the  breath 
And  delivers  death 
Among  the  startled  buck. 
— Tho'  a  gun  must  crash, 
Torpedoes  splash. 

There  is  never  a  sound 
Till  the  mark  is  found, 
And  a  ship  of  the  line  is  struck. 
"Etienne"  (Lieut.  R.  N.). 


SIGNALS 

The  hot  wax  drips  from  the  flares 

On  the  scrawled  pink  forms  that  litter 

The  bench  where  he  sits ;  the  glitter 

Of  stars  is  framed  by  the  sandbags  atop  of  the 

dug-out  stairs. 
And  the  lagging  watch  hands  creep; 
And  his  cloaked  mates  murmur  in  sleep — 
Forms  he  can  wake  with  a  kick — 
And  he  hears,  as  he  plays  with  the  pressel-switch, 

the  strapped  receiver  click, 
On  his  ear  that  listens,  listens; 
And  the  candle-flicker  glistens 
On  the  rounded  brass  of  the  switch-board  where 

the  red  wires  cluster  thick. 

Wires  from  the  earth,  from  the  air; 

Wires  that  whisper  and  chatter, 
28 


( 

SIGNALS  29 

At  night,  when  the  trench-rats  patter 

And  nibble  among  the  rations  and  scuttle  back 
to  their  lair; 

Wires  that  are  never  at  rest ; 

For  the  linesmen  tap  them  and  test, 

And  ever  they  tren.ble  with  tone; 

And  he  knows  from  a  hundred  signals  the  buz- 
zing call  of  his  own, 

The  breaks  and  the  vibrant  stresses, — 

The  F,  and  the  G,  and  the  Esses, 

That  call  his  hand  to  the  answering  key  and  his 
mouth  to  the  microphone. 

For  always  the  laid  guns  fret 

On  the  words  that  his  mouth  shall  utter, 

When  rifle  and  Maxim  stutter 

And   the   rockets   volley   to  starward   from  the 

spurting  parapet; 
And  always  his  ear  must  hark 


30  FROM      THE      FRONT 

To  the  voices  out  of  the  dark; 
For  the  whisper  over  the  wire, 
From  the  bombed  and  the  battered  trenches  where 

the  wounded  r.edden  the  mire ; 
For  a  sign  to  waken  the  thunder 
Which  shatters  the  night  in  sunder 
With  the  flash  of  the  leaping  muzzles  and  the 

beat  of  battery-fire. 

Gilbert   Frankau. 


AMMUNITION  COLUMN 

I  am  only  a  cog  in  a  giant  machine,  a  link  of 

an  endless  chain: — 
And  the  rounds  are  drawn,  and  the  rounds  are 

fired,  and  the  empties  return  again; 
Railroad,  lorry,  and  limber,  battery,  column,  and 

park ; 
To  the  shelf  where  the  set  fuse  waits  the  breech, 

from  the  quay  where  the  shells  embark. 
We  have  watered  and  fed,  and  eaten  our  beef; 

the  long  dull  day  drags  by, 
As  I  sit  here  watching  our  "Archibalds"  strafing 

an  empty  sky; 
Puflf  and  flash  on  the  far-off  blue  round  the  speck 

one  guesses  the  plane — 

Smoke  and  spark  of  the  gun-machine  that  is  fed 

by  the  endless  chain. 
31 


32  FROM       THE       FRONT 

I  am  only  a  cog  in  a  giant  machine,  a  little  link 

of  the  chain, 
Waiting  a  word  from  the  wagon-lines  that  the 

guns  are  hungry  again : — 
Column-wagon   to   battery-wagon,   and   battery- 
wagon  to  gun ; 
To   the   loader  kneeling   'twixt   trail  and   wheel 

from  the  shops  where  the  steam-lathes  run. 
There's   a   lone   mule   braying  against   the   line 

where  the  mud  cakes   fetlock-deep; 
There's  a  lone  soul  humming  a  hint  of  a  song 

in  the  barn  where  the  drivers  sleep; 
And  I  hear  the  pash  of  the  orderly's  horse  as 

he  canters  him  down  the  lane — 
Another  cog  in  the  gun-machine,  a  link  in  the 

self-same  chain. 

I  am  only  a  cog  in  a  giant  machine,  but  a  vital 
link  of  the  chain; 


AMMUNITION       COLUMN  33 

And  the  Captain  has  sent  from  the  wagon-line  to 

fill  his  wagons  again ; 
From  the  wagon-limber  to  gunpit  dump;  from 

loader's  forearm  at  breech 
To  the  working  party  that  melts  away  when  the 

shrapnel  bullets  screech. 
So  the  restless  section  pulls  out  once  more  in  col- 
umn of  route  from  the  right 
At  the  tail  of  a  blood-red  afternoon ;  so  the  flux 

of  another  night 
Bears  back  the  wagons  we  fill  at  dawn  to  the 

sleeping  column  again — 
Cog  on  cog  in  the  gun-machine,  link  on  link  in 

the  chain ! 

Gilbert  Frankau. 


HORSE-BATHING   PARADE 

A  few  clouds  float  across  the  grand  blue  sky, 

The  glorious  sun  has  mounted  zenith-high, 

Mile  upon  mile  of  sand,  flat,  golden,  clean. 

And  bright,  stretch  north  and  south,  and  fringed 

with  green, 

The  rough  dunes  fitly  close  the  landward  view. 

All  else  is  sea ;  somewhere  in  misty  blue 

The  distant  coast  seems  melting  into  air — 

Earth,  sky,  and  ocean,  all  commingling  there — 

And  one  bold,  lonely  rock,  whose  guardian  light 

Glistens  afar  by  day.  a  spire  snow  white. 

Here,  where  the  ceaseless  blue-green  rollers  dash 

Their  symmetry  to  dazzling  foam  and  flash, 

We  ride  our  horses,  silken  flanks  ashine, 

.Spattered  and  soaked  with  flying  drops  of  brine, 
34 


HORSE-BATHING      PARADE         35 

The  sunny  water  tosses  round  their  knees, 
Their  smooth  tails  shimmer  in  the  singing  breeze. 
White  streaks  of  foam  sway  round  us,  to  and 

fro, 
With  shadows  swaying  on  the  sand  below; 
The  horses  snort  and  start  to  see  the  foam, 
And  hear  the  breaking  roar  of  waves  that  come, 
Or,  pawing,  splash  the  brine,  and  so  we  stand. 
And  hear  the  surf  rush  hissing  up  the  sand. 
Corp.  W.  Kersley  Holmes. 


"THE  MERCY  SHIP" 

Above  the  distant  skyline  by  degrees, 
Snow-white  and  shining  in  the  peaceful  sun, 
The  Mercy  Ship  appears  upon  the  seas 
With  those  whose  fighting  for  a  while  is  done; 
Yet  some  there  be  that  struggle  still  with  pain, 
And  agony  too  terrible  for  speech. 
And  some  there  be  who'll  never  fight  again, 
Who've  journeyed  where  no  enemy  can  reach. 
O  winds  be  merciful,  O  waves  be  kind, 
To  these  poor  victims  of  a  mad  mankind. 

No  cheers  to  greet,  no  friendly  flag  to  dip, 

No  crowded  quay — in  silence  she  arrives; 

Such  is  the  coming  of  the  Mercy  Ship, 

With  all  her  honored  freight  of  human  lives. 
36 


THE      MERCY      SHIp"  Z7 

And  one  by  one  the  wounded  reach  the  shore, 
Till  all  have  passed — then,  stately  and  serene — 
The  Mercy  Ship  returns  to  bear  once  more 
The  broken  martyrs  of  the  War  Machine. 
O  winds  be  merciful,  O  waves  be  kind, 
To  these  poor  victims  of  a  mad  mankind. 
Eric  Thirkell  Cooper. 


THE  BATHE 

Come  friend  and  swim.    We  may  be  better  then, 

But  here  the  dust  blows  ever  in  the  eyes 

And  wrangling  round  are  weary  fevered  men, 

Forever  mad  with  flies. 

I  cannot  sleep,  nor  even  long  lie  still, 

And  you  have  read  your  April  paper  twice; 

Tomorrow  we  must  stagger  up  the  hill 

To  man  a  trench  and  live  among  the  lice. 

But  yonder,  where  the  Indians  have  their  goats, 

There  is  a  rock  stands  sheer  above  the  blue, 

Where  one  may  sit  and  count  the  bustling  boats 

And  breath  the  cool  air  through; 

May  find  it  still  is  good  to  be  alive, 

May  look  across  .and  see  the  Trojan  shore 
38 


THEBATHE  39 

Twinkling  and  warm,  may  strip,  and  stretch,  and 

dive, — 
And  for  a  space  forget  about  the  war. 

Then  will  we  sit  and  talk  of  happy  things, 
Home  and  "the  High"   and   some   far  fighting 

friend. 
And  gather  strength  for  what  the  morrow  brings, 
For  that  may  be  the  end. 
It  may  be  we  shall  never  swim  again, 
Never  be  clean  and  comely  to  the  sight. 
May  rot  untombed  and  stink  with  all  the  slain. 
Come,  then  and  swim.     Come  and  be  clean  to- 
night. 

A.  P.  Herbert. 


MARCHING  SONG 

Boots,   belt,   rifle,   and  pack — 

All  you'll  need  till  you  come  back ; 

All  you'll  doff  when  you  lie  down  to  sleep; 

All  they'll  take  off  when  they  bury  you  deep. 

Boots,  belt,  rifle,  and  pack. 

Boots  that  went  light  down  the  Suffolk  lane 
Will  shufile  and  drag  ere  they  tread  it  again. 
Nails  that  rang  gay  on  the  cobbled  street 
Will  have  pierced  through  the  sock  into  some- 
body's feet. 
Boots,  belt,  rifle,  and  pack. 

Belt — for  water-bottle  and  sword : 

One  to  save  life;  the  other — oh,  Lord! 
40 


MARCHING      SONG  4^ 

'Fore  you've  finished  with  them,  you  bet, 
One  will  be  dry  and  the  other  wet. 
Boots,  belt,  rifle,  and  pack. 

Rifle, — the  soldier's  only  friend — 
True,  if  you  treat  her  well,  to  the  end : 
Feed  her  with  fire,  and  the  tune  she'll  play 
Will  reach  the  heart  of  a  Turkish  Bey. 
Boots,  belt,  rifle,  and  pack. 

Pack — that  holds  what  a  man  most  wants : 

A  shirt,  an  overcoat,  socks  and  pants, 

A  Bible,  a  photo  of  heart's  desire; 

But  you'll  throw  it  away  when  you  charge — or 

retire. 
Boots,  belt,  rifle,  and  pack. 

Leather  and  canvas,  steel  and  wood, 
They'll  stand  by  you  if  you're  good ; 


42  FROM      THE      FRONT 

Keep  them  oiled  and  keep  them  dry, 
They'll  see  you  home  safely — by  and  by. 
Boots,  belt,  rifle,   and  pack. 

C  J.  N.  (A.N.Z.A.C.). 


MY  RIFLE 

Some  Maxims  of  Sergeant  J.  Callary 

To  the  humor  and  the  good  humor,  of  the  ge- 
nial sergeant  I  owe  it  that  the  period  of  my  early 
drilling,  which  might  thinkably  have  been  a  time 
of  deadly  dullness,  afforded  me  much  entertain- 
ment, as  well  as  not  a  little  valuable  instruction. 
The  sergeant  was  always  at  his  best  dilating  upon 
the  virtues  of  the  rifle,  and  the  necessity  for 
treating  it  with  respect. 

I'm  the  Soldier's  surest  friend: 
I  will  neither  break  nor  bend. 

Straight  and  sterling,  tried  and  true ; 

You  keep  me  and  I'll  keep  you. 
43 


44  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Bolt  and  barrel,  butt  and  band; 
Caress  me  with  a  careful  hand. 

Stock  and  swivel,  sling  and  sight; 
Rub  me  down  and  keep  me  right. 

Striker,  trigger,  cocking-piece ; 
Give  'em  all  some  elbow-grease. 

Clean  me  clean,  and  oil  me  well ; 
I'll  kill  your  man  and  never  tell. 

Leave  me  dirty,  oil  me  ill; 
You're  the  chap  I'm  going  to  kill. 

Leave  me  lying  all  awry; 
You're  the  feller's  going  to  die. 

Daily  do  but  pull  me  through; 
I  will  do  the  same  for  you. 


M  Y      R  I  F  L  E  45 

Only  use  a  "two  by  four'' — 
Nothing  less,  and  nothing  more. 

"Pull-through"  rag  will  do  the  trick; 
A  shirt  or  sock  is  going  to  stick ! 

And  keep  your  bottle  full  of  ile — 
Remember  the  Virgins'  parabile ! 

Handle  me  with  care,  I  beg, 

I'm  not  so  stout  as  old  Mons  Meg ! 

Do  not  pitch  me  on  the  ground — 

To  break  me,  a  hammer  can  be  found ! 

I'm  the  Soldier's  surest  friend: 
I  will  neither  break  nor  bend. 

Straight  and  sterling,  tried  and  true — 
You  keep  me  and  I'll  keep  you. 

Sergt.  Joseph   Lee. 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

(A  Soliloquy) 

Somewhere  in  the  Ansae  Zone 

In  my  sandy  dug-out  by  the  sea 

Of  Saros  beyond  Samothrace, 

I'm  as  happy  as  happy  can  be, 

And  I'm  bent  upon  washing  my  face 

Before  I  go  into  my  tea; 

But  the  water's  so  scarce  in  this  land 

That  we  do  all  our  washing  with  sand — 

And  we  always  have  sand  in  our  tea. 

In  my  fly-filled  dug-out  by  the  sea 

Near  Anzac,  beyond  Samothrace, 

Both  the  cook  and  colonel  agree 

That  you  must  have  some  semblance  of  grace 
46 


THE       HAPPY       WARRIOR  47 

At  breakfast,  at  dinner,  and  tea, 

To  prevent  you  from  damning  the  eyes 

Of  the  savage  and  pestilent  flies — 

For  you  ahvays  have  flies  in  your  tea ! 

In  my  shell-swept  dug-out  by  the  sea 
Of  Saros,  beyond  Samothrace, 
I'm  as  happy  as  happy  can  be. 
The'  the  shrapnel  comes  flying  apace 
Over  moorland  and  mountain  and  lea — 
For  I  wish  you  to  quite  understand, 
Tho'  the  hens  have  vacated  the  land, 
Yet  we  always  have  shells  with  our  tea ! 
M.  R.   (A.N.Z.A.C). 


"FAGS" 

When  the  cold  is  making  ice  cream  of  the  mar- 
row of  your  bones, 

When  you're  shaking  Hke  a  jelly  and  your  feet 
are  dead  as  stones, 

When  your  clothes  and  boots  and  blankets,  and 
your  rifle   and   your  kit 

Are  soaked  from  hell  to  breakfast,  and  the  dug- 
out where  you  sit 

Is  leaking  like  a  basket,  and  upon  the  muddy 
floor 

The  water  lies  in  filthy  pools,  six  inches  deep  or 
more ; 

Tho'  life  seems  cold  and  mis'rable,  and  all  the 
world  is  wet, 

You'll  always  get  thro'  somehow  if  you've  got  a 

cigarette. 

48 


FAGS  49 

When  you're  lying  in  a  listening  post,  'way  out 

beyond  the  wire, 
While  a  blasted  Hun,  behind  a  gun,   is  doing 

rapid  fire : 
When  the  bullets  whine  about  your  head  and 

sputter  on  the  ground. 
When  your  eyes  are  strained  for  every  move, 

your  ears  for  every  sound — 
You'd  bet  your  life  a  Hun  patrol  is  prowling 

somewhere  near — 
A  shiver  runs  along  your  spine  that's  very  much 

like  fear: 
You'll  stick  it  to  the  finish — but  I'll  make  a  little 

bet. 
You'd  feel  a  whole  lot  better  if  you  had  a  cig- 
arette. 

When  Fritz  is  starting  something  and  his  guns 
are  on  the  bust, 


50  FROM       THE      FRONT 

When  the  parapet  goes  up  in  chunks  and  settles 

down  in  dust, 
When  the  roly-poly  "rum- jar"  comes  a  wabbling 

thro'  the  air, 
Till  it  lands  upon  a  dugout — and  the  dugout  isn't 

there ; 
When  the  air  is  full  of  dust  and  smoke  and 

scraps  of  steel  and  noise, 
And  you  think  you're  booked  for  golden  crowns 

and  other  heavenly  joys; 
When  your  nerves  are  all  atremble  and  your 

brain  is  all  afret, 
It  isn't  half  so  hopeless  if  you've  got  a  cigarette. 

When  you're  waiting  for  the  whistle  and  your 

foot  is  on  the  step, 
You  bluff  yourself  it's  lots  of  fun,  and  all  the 

time  you're  hep 


FAGS  51 

To  the  fact  that  you  may  stop  one  'fore  you've 

gone  a  dozen  feet, 
And  you  wonder  what  it  feels  like,  and  your 

thoughts  are  far  from  sweet; 
Then  you  think  about  a  little  grave,  with  R.I. P. 

on  top. 
And  you  know  you've  got  to  go  across — altho' 

you'd  like  to  stop; 
When  your  backbone's  limp  as  water  and  you're 

bathed  in  icy  sweat, 
Why,  you'll  feel  a  lot  more  cheerful  if  you  puff 

your  cigarette. 

Corp.  Jack  Turner. 


THE  SOLDIER  MOOD 

We  were  eating  chip  potatoes  underneath  the 

April  stars 
That  glittered  coldly  and  aloof  from  earth  and 

earthly  wars ; 
We  were  three  good  pals  together,  and  the  day's 

hard  work  was  done, 
So  we  munched  our  chip  potatoes,  half  for  food 

and  half  for  fun. 

Half  the  world  was  war's  dominion,  but  the  mut- 
ter of  the  strife 

Had  come  to  seem  accustomed  as  the  undertone 
of  life; 

We  were  fit  and  hard  and  happy,  and  the  future 
was  unknown. 

The  past — all  put  behind  us ;  but  the  present  was 

our  own. 

52 


THE       SOLDIER       MOOD  53 

We  were  doing  our  plainest  duty,  meant  to  end 

what  we'd  begun ; 
Why  worry  for  tomorrow  till  today's  big  job 

was  done? 
So  we  walked  and  laughed  together  like  three 

modern  musketeers — 
Defying  indigestion  and  the  Germans  and  the 

years. 

We  were  eating  chip  potatoes  with  our  fingers, 

like  a  tramp. 
And  the  unseen  owls  were  hooting  in  the  trees 

around  the  camp ; 
We  were  happy  to  be  hungry,  glad  to  be  alive 

and  strong; 
So — tomorrow  might  be  terror,  but  tonight  could 

be  a  song! 

Corp.  W.  Kersley  Holmes. 


A  WAIL  FROM  ORDNANCE 

We're  only  in  the  Ordience, 

Not  troopers  of  the  line; 

We  don't  attack  no  enemy, 

Nor  in  the  papers  shine. 

We  just  wait  here  from  morn  till  night, 

Expectin'  these  'ere  shells 

That  makes  our  lives,  what  were  so  bright. 

So  many  earthly  'ells. 

We  'and  out  underpants  and  socks, 

And  boots  and  coats  galore, 

To  them  as  gives  and  takes  hard  knocks 

An'  soon  gets  used  to  war. 

We  keep  their  clothing  up  to  dick. 

Equip  and  arm  'em,  too ; 
54 


A     WAIL     FROM     ORDNANCE  55 

We  rig  out  the  returning  sick 
'Almost  as  good  as  new. 

They  blew  us  from  our  depot  south 

A  bit  along  the  beach, 

We  humped  our  blueys,  nothing  loath. 

And  settled  out  of  reach. 

Our  store  grew  large  and  prosperous. 

We  laughed  at  Turk  and  Hun, 

Until  they  trained  on  us  one  day 

A  blasted  four-point-one. 

Each  morning  they  put  in  a  few 

To  bring  us  from  our  beds, 

From  time  to  time  the  whole  day  through 

They  make  us   duck   our  heads. 

One  eye  is  cocked  for  cover. 

And  one  ear  for  the  whiz, 

An',  until  the  fuss  is  over,  we 

Postpone  our  daily  biz. 


56  FROM      THE      FRONT 

Now,  when  the  war  is  over, 

And  we  return  to  peace, 

Though  we  may  Hve  in  clover, 

Enjoying  lives  of  ease — 

A  striking  clock  will  wake  us, 

A  blow-out  make  us  run. 

And  cry  again  our  old  refrain: 

"Gott  straf  that  four-point-one!" 

Lieut.  •  Kininmouth,  A.O.C. 


THE  RATION  RASHER 

"There  always  seems  to  he  someone  cooking 
bacon  in  the  trenches." — Extract  from  an  Of- 
ficer's letter. 

A  peculiar  stench  is  the  smell  of  the  trench — 

Of  that  there  is  no  denying; 

But  at  every  post  what  strikes  you  most 

Is  the  smell  of  bacon  frying. 

The  moldy  beef  of  some  past  relief, 

I  grant  you,  is  somewhat  trying ; 

But  to  counteract,  you've  always  the  fact 

Of  the  smell  of  bacon  frying. 

At  another  time  the  chloride  of  lime 

Will  almost  start  you  crying; 

57 


58  FROM      THE      FRONT 

But  banish  the  niff  by  having  a  sniff 
At  the  smell  of  bacon  frying. 

The  night  has  been  wet  and  you  see  with  regret 
Odd  garments  hung  out  drying; 
The  odor  is  quaint,  and  you  bless  the  saint 
Who  invented  bacon  frying. 

It  haunts  you  by  night,  and  in  daylight  bright, 
It  will  haunt  you  when  you're  dying; 
That  insidious  smell  that  you  know  so  well — 
The  smell  of  the  bacon  frying. 

Capt.  C.  W.  Blackall. 


PETER'S  PUDDING 

There  came  a  pudding  from  Peter's  people, 

Round  as  the  best  of  puddings  are, 

A  fragrant  spheroid  of  fruit  and  fatness, 

Unannounced  Hke  a  falling  star, 

Errant,  excellent,  edible  star; 

Directed  to  him  came  this  beautiful  ball, 

Yet,  certes,  we  scented  a  feast  for  us  all. 

It  came  at  noon,  when  we  had  no  leisure,  . 

Only  we  sighed,  "Were  tea-time  come !" 

Oh,  bear  with  us  and  our  horrid  hunger, 

You  who  formally  dine  at  home. 

See  a  pudding  per  day  at  home; 

And  marvel  what  rarities  puddings  must  be 

Here,  when  one  fashions  a  festival  tea! 
59 


6o  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Till  eve  we  toiled  in  the  liveliest  weather, 

Out  in  the  wind,  the  mud,  and  rain, 

VV'hile  hunger  gathered,  till  day  departing 

Bugles  called  us  to  tea  again — 

Blew  their  j oiliest  summons  again, 

And  then  how  we  valued  the  pains  Peter  took 

To  keep  on  the  sunniest  side  of  the  cook ! 

The  pudding  came  to  the  crowded  mess-tent. 

Wrapped  in  a  wreath  of  pleasant  steam, 

Substantial,  solid,  as  puddings  should  be — 

Fading  swift  as  an  idle  dream. 

Moment's  doughy,  digestible  dream; 

And  then  we  went  forth  to  what  Fortune  might 

bring, 
More  fit  by  one  pudding  to  fight  for  the  King ! 
Corp.  W.  Kersley  Holmes. 


LETTERS 
(Vermelles,  August,  191 5) 

When  stand-to  hour  is  over  we  leave  the  para- 
pet. 

And  scamper  to  our  dug-out  to  smoke  a  ciga- 
rette ; 

The  post  has  brought  in  parcels  and  letters  for 
us  all, 

And  now  we'll  light  a  candle,  a  little  penny  can- 
dle, 

A  tiny  tallow  candle,  and  stick  it  to  the  wall. 

Dark  shadows  cringe  and  cower  on  roof  and  wall 

and  floor. 

And  little  roving  breezes  come  rustling  through 

the  door ; 

61 


62  FROM      THE      FRONT 

We  open  up  the  letters  of  friends  across  the 

foam, 
And  thoughts  go  back  to  London,  again  we  dream 

of  London — 
We  see  the  Hghts  of  London,  of  London  and 

of  home. 

We've  parcels  small  and  parcels  of  a  quite  gi- 
gantic size, 
We've  Devon  cream  and  butter  and  apples  baked 

in  pies. 
We'll  make  a  night  of  feasting  and  all  v/ill  have 

their  fill- 
See,  cot-mate  Bill  has  dainties,  such  dandy  dinky 

dainties. 
She's  one  to  choose  the  dainties,  the  maid  that's 
gone  on  Bill. 

Oh,  Kensington  for  neatness ;  it  packs  its  parcels 
well, 


LETTERS  63 

Though  Bow  is  always  bulky  it  isn't  quite  as 
swell. 

But  here  there's  no  distinction  'twixt  Kensing- 
ton and  Bow, 

We're  comrades  in  the  dug-out,  all  equals  in  the 
dug-out. 

We're  comrades  in  the  dug-out  and  fight  a  com- 
mon foe. 

Here  comes  the  ration  party  with  tins  of  bully 

stew — 
"Clear  off  your  ration  party,  we  have  no  need  of 

you: 
"Maconachie  for  breakfast?   It  ain't  no  bloomin' 

use. 
We're  faring  far,  far  better,  our  gifts  from  home 

are  better. 
Look  here,  we've  something  better  than  bully 

after  Loos." 


64  FROM       THE      FRONT 

The  post  comes  trenchwar J  nightly ;  we  hail  the 

post  with  glee. 
Though  now  we're  not  as  many  as  once  we  used 

to  be, 
For  some  have  done  their  fighting,  packed  up 

and  gone  away, 
And  many  boys  are  sleeping,  no  sound  will  break 

their  sleeping, 
Brave,  lusty  comrades  sleeping  in  little  homes  of 

clay. 

We  all  have  read  our  letters,  but  one's  untouched 

so  far. 
An  English  maiden's  letter  to  her  sweetheart  at 

the  War, 
And  when  we  write  in  answer  to  tell  her  how 

he  fell. 
What  can  we  say  to  cheer  her?     Oh,  what  is 

now  to  cheer  her? 


LETTERS  65 

There's   nothing   left   to   cheer   her   except   the 
news  to  tell. 

We'll  write  to  her  tomorrow  and  this  is  what 

we'll  say, 
He  breathed  her  name  in  dying;  in  peace  he 

passed  away — 
No  words  about  his  moaning,  his  anguish  and  his 

pain. 
When  slowly,  slowly  dymg.    God  '   Fifteen  hours 

in    dying ! 
He  lay  a  maimed  thing  dying,  alone  upon  the 

plain. 

We  often  write  to  mothers,  to  sweethearts  and 

to  wives, 
And  tell  how  those  who  loved  them  have  given 

up  their  lives ; 
If  we're  not  always  truthful,  our  lies  are  always 

kind, 


66  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Our  letters  lie  to  cheer  them,  to  solace  and  to 

cheer  them. 
Oh!  anything  to  cheer  them, — the  women  left 

behind. 

Patrick  MacGill. 


NO  MAN'S  LAND 

No  Man's  Land  is  an  eerie  sight 
At  early  dawn  in  the  pale  gray  light. 
Never  a  house  and  never  a  hedge 
In  No  Man's  Land  from  edge  to  edge, 
And  never  a  living  soul  walks  there 
To  taste  the  fresh  of  the  morning  air. 
Only  some  lumps  of  rotting  clay, 
That  were  friends  or  foemen  yesterday. 

What  are  the  bounds  of  No  Man's  Land? 

You  can  see  them  clearly  on  either  hand, 

A  mound  of  rag-bags  gray  in  the  sun, 

Or  a  furrow  of  brown  where  the  earthworks 

run 

From  the  Eastern  hills  to  the  Western  sea, 

Through  field  or  forest  o'er  river  and  lea ; 
67 


68  FROM       THE      FRONT 

No  man  may  pass  them,  but  aim  you  well 
And  Death  rides  across  on  the  bullet   or 
shell. 

But  No  Man's  Land  is  a  goblin  sight 
When  patrols  crawl  over  at  dead  o'  night ; 
Boche  or  British,  Belgian  or  French, 
You  dice  with  death  when  you  cross  the 

trench. 
When  the  "rapid,"  like  fire-flies  in  the  dark, 
Flits  down  the  parapet  spark  by  spark, 
And  you  drop  for  cover  to  keep  your  head 
With  your  face  on  the  breast  of  the  four 

months'  dead. 

The  man  who  ranges  in  No  Man's  Land 
Is  dogged  by  the  shadows  on  either  hand 
When  the  star-shell's  flare,  as  it  bursts  o'er- 
head. 


NO       man's       land  69 

Scares  the  great  gray  rats  that  feed  on  the 

dead, 
And  the  bursting  bomb  or  the  bayonet-snatch 
May  answer  the  cHck  of  your  safety-catch. 
For  the  lone  patrol,  with  his  life  in  his  hand, 
Is  hunting  for  blood  in  No  Man's  Land. 

Capt.  J.  H.  Knight-Adkin. 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES 

Star-shells  rising  all  around  us, 

Watch  the  searchlights  come  this  way, 

Bullets  whirring,  zipping  round  us 

From  the  rifles  laid  by  day; 

Pop,  pop,  pop,  a  Maxim  tapping, 

Just  to  show  it's  working  right, 

Lest  its  crew  should  be  caught  napping, 

So  they  try  it  every  night. 

Out  in  front  a  hammer  knocking, 

Somebody  is  fixing  "wire"; 

Hear  the  peewit  sadly  mocking; 

Men  in  front  now — Do  not  fire ! 

Working  party  just  returning. 

Digging  finished  for  a  while; 

Stopped  because  a  house  was  burning — 
70 


NIGHT       IN       THE       TRENCHES      71 
Through  they  pass  in  single  file ; 
Strain  your  eyes  to  pierce  the  blackness, 
Whilst  your  feet  are  growing  numb, 
Death  may  come  through  one  man's  slack- 
ness— 
Night  and  death  together  come. 

Eric  Thirkell  Cooper. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  FIRE-TRENCH 

'Tis  midnight,  and  above  the  hollow  trench, 

Seen    through    a    gaunt    wood's    battle-blasted 

trunks 

And  the  stark  rafters  of  a  shattered  grange, 

The  quiet  sky  hangs  huge  and  thick  with  stars. 

And  through  the  vast  gloom,  murdering  its  peace, 

Guns  bellow  and  their  shells  rush  sv^^ishing  ere 

They  burst  in  death  and  thunder,  or  they  fling 

Wild  jangling  spirals  round  the  screaming  air. 

Bullets  whine  by,  and  Maxims  drub  like  drums, 

And  through  the  heaped  confusion  of  all  sounds 

One  great  gun  drives  its  single  vibrant  "Broum," 

And  scarce  five  score  of  paces  from  the  wall 

Of  piled  sand-bags  and  barb-toothed  nets  of  wire, 

(So  near  and  yet  what  thousand  leagues  away) 
72 


WRITTEN     IN    A     FIRE-TRENCH    71 

The  unseen  foe  both  adds  and  listens  to- 
The  selfsame  discord,  eyed  by  the  same  stars. 
Deep  darkness  hides  the  desolated  land. 
Save  where  a  sudden  flare  sails  up  and  bursts 
In  whitest  glare  above  the  wilderness. 
And  for  one  instant  lights  with  lurid  pallor 
The  tense,  packed  faces  in  the  black  redoubt. 

W.   S.   S.  Lyon. 

N.  B.    Written  in  fire-trench  above  "Glencorse 
Wood,"  Westhoeck,  April  ii,  1915. 


A  QUIET  NIGHT 

So  lie  you  low,  and  watch  the  rise 

Where  the  hedge  runs  down  to  the  Broken 
Tree; 

There  stands  a  farrn  that  you  cannot  see, 
And  near  the  German  culvert  lies. 
So  ready  ears,  good  men,  and  eyes 
That  waver  not  till  starlight  dies; 

They  gather  stealthily. 

Lie  you,  a  bomb  within  the  hand, 
The  rifle  ready  by  the  arm. 
Touch  but  the  wire  to  give  alarm; 
For  our  trench  runs  far  in  No  Man's  Land, 
And  it's  lightly  dug,  and  it's  thinly  manned, 
And  it's  Death  tonight,  my  Httle  band, 
If  Germans  take  the  farm. 

Ronald  Gurner. 
74 


IN  NO  MAN'S  LAND  WITH  THE  NIGHT 
PATROL 

Five  men  over  the  parapet,  v^ith  a  one-star  loot 

in  charge, 
Stumbling  along  through  the  litter  and  muck  and 

cursing  blind  and  large. 
Hooking  their  gear  in  the  clutching  wire  as  they 

wriggle  through  the  gap, 
For  an  hour's  patrol  in  No  Man's  Land,  and  take 

what  chance  may  hap. 

From   Misery   Farm  to   Seven   Trees   it's   safe 

enough  to  go. 
But  it's  belly  crawl  down   Dead   Man's   Ditch, 

half  choked  with  grimy  snow. 

Then  back  again  beside  the  grass  grown  road — 

Watch  out!     They've  got  it  set! 
75 


76  FROM       THE      FRONT 

To  where  B  company's  listening  post  lies  shiv- 
ering in  the  wet. 

And  I  have  failed  at  many  a  task,  but  this  one 

thing  I've  learned: — 
It's  the  little  things  make  paradise — like  three 

hours'  doss  well  earned, 
A  fire  of  coke  in  a  battered  pail,  and  a  gulp  of 

ration  rum, 
Or  a  gobbled  meal  of  bully  and  mud,  with  the 

guns  for  a  moment  dumb. 

And  horror's  not  from  terrible  things — men  torn 

to  rags  by  a  shell, 
And  the  whole  trench  swimming  in  blood  and 

slush,  like  a  butcher's  shop  in  hell; 
It's  silence  and  night  and  the  smell  of  the  dead 

that  shake  a  man  to  the  soul, 
From  Misery  Farm  to  Dead  Man's  Ditch  on  a 

"nil  report"  patrol. 


IN     NO     man's     land  77 

Five  men  back  to  the  trench  again,  with  a  one- 
star  loot  in  charge, 

Stumbling  over  the  rusty  tins  and  cursing  blind 
and  large. 

Enter  the  trench  log  up  to  date  by  a  guttering 
candle's  flare ! 

"No  report"  (save  that  hell  is  dark,  and  we  have 
just  been  there). 

Capt.  J.  H.  Knight-Adkin. 


BEFORE  THE  CHARGE 

(Loos,  1915) 

The  night  is  still  and  the  air  is  keen, 
Tense  with  menace  the  time  crawls,  by, 
In  front  is  the  town  and  its  homes  are  seen, 
Blurred  in  outline  against  the  sky. 

The  dead  leaves  float  in  the  sighing  air, 
The  darkness  moves  like  a  curtain  drawn, 
A  veil  which  the  morning  sun  will  tear 
From  the  face  of  death.  We  charge  at  dawn. 
Patrick  MacGill. 


78 


NEUVE  CHAPELLE 

The  Morning  Star  is  fading  from  our  sight 
Above  the  miry  trench  we  know  so  well, 
Facing  a  clustered  group  of  houses  white, 
Neuve  Chapelle. 

Suddenly  through  the  palpitating  air 
Descends  a  thunderstorm  of  shot  and  shell 
Upon  the  village  calmly  sleeping  there, 
Neuve  Chapelle 

The  tempest  grows,  like  a  tornado's  gust 
Or  countless  fiends  let  loose  at  once  from  hell ; 
It  maddens  men,  and  shatters  into  dust 
Neuve  Chapelle. 

Ceases  awhile  the  cannon's  deafening  crash ; 

Forth,  at  the  whistle,  with  a  jubilant  yell 
79 


8o  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Khaki-clad  warriors  leap ;  'gainst  thee  they  dash, 
Neuve  Chapelle. 

They  hurl  them  on  the  crowded  trench  below, 
With  courage  that  no  fear  of  death  can  quell; 
Their  bayonets  heap  thy  pavements  with  the  foe, 
Neuve  Chapelle. 

A  thousand  graves  shall  mark  the  fatal  place 
Where  the  English,  Scottish,  Teuton  heroes  fell ; 
Hushed  in  their  fury  in  thy  cold  embrace, 
Neuve  Chapelle. 

Long  in  the  memory  of  Britain's  wives 
The  story  of  this  ghastly  day  shall  dwell ; 
Long  shall  we  mourn  those  young  and  gallant 
lives, 

Neuve  Chapelle. 

H.  A.  Nesbitt,  M,A. 
April,  ipi5. 


IN  THE  MORNING 

{Loos,  ipi^) 

The  firefly  haunts  were  hghted  yet, 
As  we  scaled  the  top  of  the  parapet; 
But  the  East  grew  pale  to  another  fire,    ' 
As  our  bayonets  gleamed  by  the  foeman's 

wire; 
And  the  sky  was  tinged  with  gold  and  gray, 
And  under  our  feet  the  dead  men  lay, 
Stiff  by  the  loop-holed  barricade ; 
Food  of  the  bomb  and  the  hand-grenade ; 
Still  in  the  slushy  pool  and  mud — 
Ah !  the  path  we  came  was  a  path  of  blood. 
When  we  went  to  Loos  in  the  morning. 

A  little  gray  church  at  the  foot  of  a  hill. 

With  powdered  glass  on  the  window-sill. 
8i 


82  FROM       THE      FRONT 

The  shell-scarred  stone  and  the  broken  tile, 
Littered  the  chancel,  nave  and  aisle — 
Broken  the  altar  and  smashed  the  pyx, 
And  the  rubble  covered  the  crucifix; 
This  we  saw  when  the  charge  was  done. 
And  the  gas-clouds  paled  in  the  rising  sun. 
As  we  entered  Loos  in  the  morning. 

The  dead  men  lay  on  the  shell-scarred  plain, 
Where  Death  and  the  Autumn  held  their 

reign — 
Like  banded  ghosts  in  the  heavens  gray 
The  smoke  of  the  powder  paled  away; 
Where  riven  and  rent  the  spinney  trees 
Shivered  and  shook  in  the  sullen  breeze, 
And  there,  where  the  trench  through  the 

graveyard  wound. 
The  dead  men's  bones  stuck  over  the  ground 
By  the  road  to  Loos  in  the  morning. 


IN      THE      MORNING  83 

The  turret  towers  that  stood  in  the  air, 

Sheltered  a  foeman  sniper  there — 

They  found,  who  fell  in  the  sniper's  aim, 

A  field  of  death  on  the  field  of  fame ; 

And  stiff  in  khaki  the  boys  were  laid 

To  the  sniper's  toll  at  the  barricade. 

But  the  quick  went  clattering  through  the 

town, 
Shot  at  the  sniper  and  brought  him  down, 
As  we  entered  Loos  in  the  morning. 

The  dead  men  lay  on  the  cellar  stair. 
Toll  of  the  bomb  that  found  them  there. 
In  the  street  men  fell  as  a  bullock  drops, 
Sniped  from  the  fringe  of  Hulluch  copse. 
And  the  choking  fumes  of  the  deadly  shell 
Curtained   the   place   where   our   comrades 

fell. 
This  we  saw  when  the  charge  was  done, 


^4  FROM       THE      FRONT 

And  the  East  blushed  red  to  the  rising  sun 
In  the  town  of  Loos  in  the  morning. 

Patrick  MacGill. 


CIVILIZATION 

"God's  in  His  Heaven, 
All's  right  with  the  world." 

— Browning. 

There's  a  roar  like  a  thousand  hells  set  free. 

And  the  riven,  tortured  ground 

Sways  like  a  tempest-smitten  tree ; 

And  the  earth  shoots  up  in  jets  all  round 

And  blows  like  spray  at  sea 

When  the  wild  white  horses  chafe  and  fret 

Till  the  boulders  back  on  the  beach  are  wet 

With  the  far-flung  foam.    But  the  hollow  sound 

Of  the  waves  that  roar  on  the  shifting  shore 

Would  be  lost  and  drowned  in  the  furious  din. 

When  these  fruits  of  man's  great  brain  begin 

To  pound  the  ditch  that  we  are  in. 
85 


86  FROM       THE      FRONT 

The  trench  is  soon  a  hideous  mess 

Of  yawning  holes  and  scattered  mud 

And  tangled  wire  and  spHntered  wood, 

And  some  poor  shapeless  things  you'd  guess 

Were  once  made  up  of  nerves  and  blood, 

But  now  are  no  more  good 

Than  the  tattered  sandbags — nay,  far  less. 

For  these  can  still  be  used  again. 

(Heed  not  the  dark- red  stain, 

For  that  will  quickly  disappear 

In  the  sun  and  wind  and  rain.) 

Above  our  heads — not  very  high, 

As  they  fall  on  the  German  trenches  near — 

Our  own  shells  hurtle  wailing  by, 

But  the  noise  cannot  deaden  the  dreadful  cry 

Of  a  soul  torn  out  of  the  shattered  form; 

(While  those  who  are  still  survivors  try 

Like  a  ship — any  port  in  a  storm) 

To  hide  in  the  holes  the  shells  have  made 


CIVILIZATION  87 

And  blindly,  grimly,  wait 

Till  the  storm  of  shot  and  shell  abate, 

And  it's  "Bayonets  up!"  and  blade  to  blade, 

We  can  strike  for  ourselves,  and  the  brave  dead 

boys. 
Who,  hiding  in  holes,  have  met  their  fate 
Like  rats  in  a  trap; 

But  we  perhaps  shall  have  better  hap. 
For  already  there  is  less  of  the  awful  noise, 
We  can  hear  the  machine  guns  stuttering  death 
They're  coming  at  last !    And  we  draw  our  breath 
Through  hard-clenched  teeth,  as  our  bullets  fly 
Toward  the  serried  ranks  that  are  drawing  nigh ; 
They  stagger  and  fall,  but  still  press  on 
To  the  goal  they  think  they  have  nearly  won. 
And  we  wait  and  wait  till  they're  almost  here. 
Then  it's  "Up,  lads !  Up  !  Let  'em  have  the  steel !" 
With  a  wild,  hoarse  yell  that  is  half  a  cheer, 
We  are  out  and  their  torn  ranks  backwards  reel. 


88  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Then  back  to  the  trench  to  bury  and  build, 
And  count  our  wounded  and  count  our  killed ; 
But  out  in  the  front  there  are  many  who  lie, 
Their  dead  eyes  turned  to  the  quiet  sky — 
We  have  given  our  own  lads  company. 

Lieut.  Eric  Fitzwater  Wilkinson,  M.C 
(Killed  in  action,  19 17) 


"ATTACK!" 

You  are  standing  watch  in  hand, 

All  waiting  the  command, 

While  your  guns  have  got  their  trenches  fairly 

set. 
When  they  lengthen  up  the  range, 
You  feel  a  trifle  strange 
As  you  clamber  up  the  sand-bag  parapet. 

It's  a  case  of  do  or  die — 

Still,  you  rather  wonder  why 

Your    mate    drops    down    beside    you    with    a 

screech ; 

But  you're  very  soon  aware, 

When  a  bullet  parts  your  hair, 

That  HE'S  not  the  only  pebble  on  the  beach. 
89 


90  FROM      THE      FRONT 

It's  each  man  for  himself, 

For  your  Captain's  on  the  shelf, 

And  you  don't  know  if  he's  wounded  or  he's  dead. 

So  never  count  the  cost. 

Or  your  comrades  who  are  lost. 

But  keep  the  line  on  forging  straight  ahead. 

The  high-explosive  shell 

Has  blown  their  wire  to  hell, 

And  their  trench  is  like  a  muddy,  bloody  drain. 

They  are  bolting  left  and  right. 

And  the  few  that  stay  to  fight — 

Well,  not  many  see  their  Fatherland  again ! 

But  there's  one  cove  that  you've  missed, 

And  he  cops  you  in  the  wrist 

As  you're   stooping  down  to   help  a  wounded 

chum. 
Though  you're  feeling  mighty  faint, 


"attack!"  91 

And  you're  not  a  blooming  saint, 
You  blow  his  blasted  brains  to  kingdom  come ! 

You've  done  your  little  job, 

And  you  drop  down  with  a  sob, 

For  you're  feeling  half  a  man  and  half  a  wreck. 

And  you  say  a  little  prayer — 

Which  for  you  is  rather  rare — 

For  you  got  it  in  the  arm,  and  not  the  neck. 

When  the  evening  shadows  fall, 
You  do  your  best  to  crawl, 
Till  the  stretcher-bearers  find  you  in  a  creek. 
Then  you  feel  as  right  as  rain. 
And  forget  the  aching  pain, 
For  you'll  see  Old  England's  shores  within  a 
week. 

Capt.  C.  W.  Blackall. 


THE  NIGHT  ATTACK 

Close  behind  a  wall  of  sandbags,  covered  up  with 

yellow  mud, 
In  a  trench  that  seems  perpetually  wet. 
Stands  a  line  of  weary  figures,  all  begrimed  with 

dirt  and  blood. 
And  their  tired  faces  grimly  stern  and  set; 
With  their  rifles  "laid"  and  ready  for  the  night 

that's  coming  soon. 
They  gather  round  the  braziers  for  tea. 
Whilst  the  subaltern  lies  resting  who's  in  charge 

of  the  platoon, 
Preparing  for  the  night  that  is  to  be. 
When  the  rifle  bolts  are  tested,  and  the  sentries 

have  been  set. 

When  the  night  is  only  lightened  by  the  flares, 
92 


THE      NIGHT      ATTACK  93 

He   leads  a  little  party  through  the   darkness, 

black  as  jet, 
And  creeps  to  catch  the  Deutschers  unawares. 

With  the  fuse  attached  beforehand  on  the  im- 
provised grenade, 

They  slowly  crawl  towards  the  German  wire, 

And  a  few  went  softly  cursing,  and  a  few  there 
were  that  prayed. 

Whilst  they  waited  there  for  Fritz  to  open  fire. 

Then  they  cut  the  wire  in  places,  and  a  bomb 
was  swiftly  hurled, 

A  Maxim  farther  down  began  to  pop; 

And  a  little  knot  of  Prussians  went  to  find  an- 
other world, 

As  another  bomb  went  spinning  overtop; 

Down  the  trench  the  rifles  volleyed,  though  they 
mostly  went  too  high, 


94  FROM      THE      FRONT 

But  here  and  there  a  figure  lay  and  cursed, 
Yet  only  very  softly,  so  as  not  to  signify, 
And  a  second  line  of  shadows  joined  the  first. 
Quickly  star  shells  flew  around  them,  bursting 

brilliant  as  the  sun, 
A  yelling  line  found  where  the  gap  was  blown; 
Scarlet  bayonets  quickly  finished  what  a  dead 

man  had  begun; 
And  next  day  some  widowed  women  wept  alone. 
Eric  Thirkell  Cooper. 


THE  VETERAN 

Well,  boy,  you're  off  to  war. 

I'd  go  again  myself 

If  I  was  fit.    Just  reach  my  sword 

From  off  that  dusty  shelf. 

Ah,  thanks  !     The  thrill  it  carries ! 

This  battered  hilt  to  hold. 

I'm  mutilated,  boy,  but  still 

I'm  far  from  being  old. 

Just  think,  a  scant  eight  months  ago 

I  left  here  strong  and  tall, 

And  with  my  Briton  brothers 

Threw  in  my  lot,  my  all. 

Just  eight  short  months,  but  in  that  time 

I've  lived  a  tragic  life, 
95 


96  FROM       THE       FRONT 

And  seen  my  fill  of  hate  and  flame 
And  death  in  callous   strife. 


Eight  months  ago  I  used  to  dream 

Of  glory's  honored  crown ; 

Eight  months,  and  in  that  hasting  time 

My  idols  tumbled  down. 

I  dreamt  the  thrill  of  battle; 

The  roaring  charge ;  the  check ; 

I  never  thought  that  I'd  return 

A  battered,  useless  wreck. 

Oh,  I  was  but  a  driftwood  in 

The  backwash  of  a  corps. 

I've  suffered  and  I've  risked  my  life, — 

That's  what  I  'nlisted  for. 

And  were  I  hale  and  hearty 

I'd  do  the  same  again, 

And  take  my  place  among  the  ranks 

Of  Britain's  fighting  men. 


THE      VETERAN  97 

What,  youngster?  Tell  about  my  wounds? 

There's  nothing  much  to  say. 

The  first  was  in  the  village — 

We  captured  it  that  day — 

I  got  a  bullet  in  the  breast. 

Unconsciously  for  hours 

I  lay  just  where  I  tumbled 

Drenched  thro'  with  chilling  showers. 

To  get  me  to  the  ambulance 

The  bearers  had  to  creep. 

A  doctor  tended  me  who  looked 

Half  dead  for  want  of  sleep. 

They'd  run  quite  out  of  medicine; 

Few  orderlies  beside, 

And  those  of  us  who  wanted  to 

Might  live — the  others  died. 

I  needed  life  so  much,  I  guess 
I  fought  the  angel  back. 


98  FROM       THE      FRONT 

It's  funny  how  you  hate  to  die. 

When  lying  on  your  back. 

They  patched  me  up,  eventually ; 

Back  to  the  lines  I  went, — 

Back  to  the  freezing  trench ;  'twas  then 

I  knew  what  suff'ring  meant. 

The  cutting  wind  nipped  to  the  bone. 

The  rifle  froze  the  hand, 

And  all  day  long  the  shrapnel  searched 

The  frost-encrusted  land. 

To  face  a  madly  charging  foe 

Demands  a  courage  bold, 

But  more  than  that  is  needed  to 

Combat  insistent  cold. 

One  day  we  found  a  French  platoon; 
No  wound — no  blood  was  shed; 
The  poison-gas  had  done  its  work; 


THE      VETERAN  99 

The  whole  platoon  was  dead. 
I  remember  cogitating 
As  among  that  group  I  stood, 
"If  hell  is  anything  like  war, 
Thank  God !  my  life's  been  good." 

But  go,  my  boy !    Off  to  the  front, 
And  let  no  tongue  dissuade. 
Go,  for  war's  proficiency, 
With  rifle  and  with  spade. 
God  speed  you,  boy !    I  envy  you, 
As  chained  to  a  wooden  peg, 
I,  crippled,  sit  with  a  broken  life. 
One  hand,  and  half  a  leg. 

Sergt.  Frank  S.  Brown. 


WOUNDED 

Is  it  not  strange  ?    A  year  ago  today, 

With    scarce   a   thought   beyond    the    humdrum 

round, 
I  did  my  decent  job  and  earned  my  pay; 
Was   averagely   happy,   I'll   be  bound. 
Ay,  in  my  little  groove  I  was  content. 
Seeing  my  life  run  smoothly  to  the  end. 
With  prosy  days  in  stolid  labor  spent, 
And  jolly  nights,  a  pipe,  a  glass,  a  friend. 
In  God's  good  time  a  hearth  fire's  cozy  gleam, 
A  wife  and  kids,  and  all  a  fellow  needs; 
When  presto!  like  a  bubble  goes  my  dream: 
I  leap  upon  the  stage  of  Splendid  Deeds. 
I  yell  with  rage;  I  wallow  deep  in  gore: 
I,  that  was  clerk  in  a  drysalter's  store. 

ICO 


WOUNDED  lOI 

Stranger  than  any  book  I've  ever  read. 

Here  on  the  reeking  battlefield  I  He, 

Under  the  stars,  propped  up  with  smeary  dead 

Like  too  if  no  one  takes  me  in,  to  die. 

Hit  on  the  arms,  legs,  liver,  lungs  and  gall ; 

Damn  glad  there's  nothing  more  of  me  to  hit ; 

But  calm,  and  never  feeling  pain  at  all, 

And  full  of  wonder  at  the  turn  of  it. 

For  of  the  dead  around  me  three  are  mine. 

Three  foemen  vanquished  in  the  whirl  of  fight; 

So  if  I  die  I  have  no  right  to  whine, 

I  feel  I've  done  my  little  bit  all  right. 

I  don't  know  how — but  there  the  beggars  are, 

As  dead  as  herrings  pickled  in  a  jar. 

And  here  am  I,  worse  wounded  than  I  thought ; 
For  in  the  fight  a  bullet  bee-liks  stings ; 
You  never  heed  ;  the  air  is  metal-hot. 
And  all  alive  with  little  flicking  wings. 


102  FROM       THE       FRONT 

But  on  you  charge.     You  see  the  fellows  fall; 
Your  pal  was  by  your  side,  fair  fighting-mad ; 
You  turn  to  him,  and  lo !  no  pal  at  all ; 
You  wonder  vaguely  if  he's  copped  it  bad. 
But  on  you  charge.     The  heavens  vomit  death; 
And  vicious  death  is  besoming  the  ground. 
You're  blind  with  sweat;  you're  dazed,  and  out 

of  breath, 
And  though  you  yell,  you  cannot  hear  a  sound. 
But  on  you  charge.    Oh,  War's  a  rousing  game ! 
Around  you  smoky  clouds  like  ogres  tower; 
The  earth  is  roweled  deep  with  spurs  of  flame, 
And  on  your  helmet  stones  and  ashes  shower. 
But  on  you  charge.    It's  odd !    You  have  no  fear. 
Machine-gun  bullets  whip  and  lash  your  path ; 
Red,  yellow,  black  and  smoky  giants  rear; 
The  shrapnel  rips,  the  heavens  roar  in  wrath. 
But  on  you  charge.     Barbed  wire  all  trampled 

down. 


WOUNDED  103 

The  ground  all  gored  and  rent  as  by  a  blast ; 
Grim  heaps  of  gray  where  once  were  heaps  of 

brown ; 
A  ragged  ditch — the  Hun  first  line  at  last. 
All  smashed  to  hell.   Their  second  right  ahead, 
So  on  you  charge.     There's  nothing  else  to  do. 
More  reeking  holes,  blood,  barbed  wire,  grue- 
some dead ; 
(Your  puttee  strap's  undone — that  worries  you), 
You  glare  around.    You  think  you're  all  alone. 
But  no ;  your  chums  come  surging  left  and  right. 
The  nearest  chap  flops  down  without  a  groan. 
His  face  still  snarling  with  the  rage  of  fight. 
Ha !  here's  the  second  trench — just  like  the  first, 
Only  a  little  more  so,  more  "laid  out"; 
More  pounded,  flame-corroded,  death-accurst; 
A  pretty  piece  of  work,  beyond  a  doubt. 
Now  for  the  third,  and  there  your  job  is  done. 
So  on  you  charge.     You  never  stop  to  think. 


104  FROM      THE      FRONT 

Your  cursed  puttee's  trailing  as  you  run; 
You  feel  you'd  sell  your  soul  to  have  a  drink. 
The  acrid  air  is  full  of  cracking  whips. 
You  wonder  how  it  is  you're  going  still. 
You  foam  with  rage.   Oh,  God !  to  be  at  grips 
With  someone  you  can  rush  and  crush  and  kill. 
Your  sleeve  is  dripping  blood  ;  you're  seeing  red ; 
You're  battle-mad ;  your  turn  is  coming  now. 
See!  there's   the    jagged    barbed    wire    straight 

ahead, 
And  there's  the  trench — you'll  get  there  anyhow. 
Your  puttee  catches  on  a  strand  of  wire, 
And  down  you  go ;  perhaps  it  saves  your  life, 
For  over  sandbag  rims  you  see  'em  fire, 
Crop-headed  chaps,  their  eyes  ablaze  with  strife. 
You   crawl,   you   cower;   then   once   again   you 

plunge 
With  all  your  comrades  roaring  at  your  heels. 
"Have  at  'em,  lads."     You  stab,  you  jab,  you 

lunge ; 


WOUNDED  105 

A  blaze  of  glory,  then  the  red  world  reels. 

A  crash  of  triumph,   then  .  .  .  you're   faint   a 

bit  .  .  . 
That  cursed  puttee !     Now  to  fasten  it  .  .  . 

Well,  that's  the  charge.   And  now  I'm  here  alone. 

Fve  built  a  little  wall  of  Hun  on  Hun, 

To  shield  me  from  the  leaden  bees  that  drone 

(It  saves  me  worry,  and  it  hurts  'em  none). 

The  only  thing  I'm  wondering  is  when 

Some  stretcher-men  will  stroll  along  my  way? 

It  isn't  much  that's  left  of  me,  but  then 

Where  life  is,  hope  is,  so  at  least  they  say. 

Well,  if  I'm  spared  I'll  be  the  happy  lad. 

I  tell  you  I  won't  envy  any  king. 

I've  stood  the  racket,  and  I'm  proud  and  glad; 

I've  had  my  crowning  hour.      Oh,   War's  the 

thing ! 
It  gives  us  common  working  chaps  our  chance, 
A  taste  of  glory,  chivalry,  romance. 


I06  FROM      THE      FRONT 

Ay,  War,  they  say,  is  hell;  it's  heaven,  too, 

It  lets  a  man  discover  what  he's  worth. 

It  takes  his  measure,  shows  what  he  can  do, 

Gives  him  a  joy  like  nothing  else  on  earth. 

It  fans  in  him  a  flame  that  otherwise 

Would  flicker  out,  these  drab,  discordant  days; 

It  teaches  him  in  pain  and  sacrifice 

Faith,  fortitude,  grim  courage  past  all  praise. 

Yes,  War  is  good.     So  here  beside  my  slain, 

A  happy  wreck  I  wait  amid  the  din; 

For  even  if  I  perish,  mine's  the  gain.  .  .  . 

Hi,  there,  you  fellows!    Won't  you  take  me  in? 

Give  me  a  fag  to  smoke  upon  the  way.  .  .  . 

We've  taken  La  Boiselle !   The  hell,  you  say ! 

Well,   that   would   make  a   corpse   sit   up   and 

grin.  .  .  . 
Lead  on !    I'll  live  to  fight  another  day. 

Robert  W.  Service. 


GLORY 

We  had  a  little  set-back 
In  the  tricky  shadow  light 
Between  the  day  and  the  darkness 
There   had   been   a   stubborn   fight. 
When  the  last  rays  of  the  sun 
Picked  out  in  deep-cut  silhouette 
A  stranded  Maxim  gun. 

Our  Captain  spotted  it  and  turned: 

His  voice  rang  like  a  bell 

Amid  the  hurricane  of  sound — 

"Five  volunteers  for  hell!" 

The  nearest  five  howled,  "Here,  sir!" 

Above  the  awful  din, 

Then  slipped  out  in  the  twilight 

To  bring  that  Maxim  in, 
107 


I08  FROM       THE      FRONT 

So,  while  we  hustled  cartridge  clips, 

Or  pumped  our  magazines, 

We  snatched  the  time  to  follow 

Those  five  fire-eating  fiends. 

The  first  just  turned  and  crumpled  up- 

His  ghastly  features  set — 

A  German  had  him  spotted  when 

He  climbed  the  parapet. 

The  second  kept  on  crawling,  till 
He  met  some  flying  lead 
That  ripped  away  his  cap  and  left 
A  deep  gash  in  his  head; 
The  third  was  going  lucky,  till 
He  topped  the  little  rise, 
Then  turned  to  us  and  wilted — 
On  his  face  a  fixed  surprise. 

The  others,  scouting  trouble,  took 
The  open  on  the  run; 


GLORY  109 

Unscathed  they  crossed  the  death  zone, 
And  reached  the  precious  gun; 
Then,  taking  it  between  them,  turned 
Back  to  our  hiding  place  : 
They'd  covered  half  the  distance,  when 
The  fourth  pitched  on  his  face. 

When  the  last  man  reached  the  trenches 

He  contained  a  pound  of  lead ; 

He  got  the  most  when  he  paused  and  stooped 

To  see  if  the  fourth  was  dead. 

Now  this  lad  got  a  medal 

To  pin  upon  his  breast. 

And  a  whacking  lot  of  glory,  too ; 

But  what  about  the  rest? 

One  of  the  men  came  crawling  back — 

He  was  the  first  to  fall — 

But  the  surgreon  could  not  save  him: 


110  FROM      THE      FRONT 

He  died  in  the  hospital. 
It  was  hours  before  the  stretchers 
Could  leave  the  trench  to  tend 
The  wounded.    In  the  meantime 
The  third  had  met  his  end. 

The  second  man  recovered, 

But  the  price  he  paid  was  high — 

Stone  blind,  a  bullet  in  the  lung. 

One  leg  bobbed  at  the  thigh. 

And  this  was  the  price  of  glory. 

This  the  just  reward: 

How  many  of  these  were  heroes, 

Think  you,  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord? 

Just  one  got  the  cross  for  valor, 
And  one  the  sufferer's  cross; 
Three  lives  went  out  in  the  twilight. 
Yet  none  account  their  loss. 
For  every  deed  rewarded — 


GLORY  III 

For  every  laurel  crown — 
Unknown,  unsung,  forgotten 
A  hundred  lives  go  down. 

Then  in  the  final  reck'ning 
Share  with  the  ones  unknown 
The  glory;  give  not  the  living 
The  bread — to  the  dead  a  stone. 
But  honor  the  sacred  mem'ry 
Of  those  who  for  honor  tried — 
Men  of  stupendous  valor, 
Unknown  because  they  died. 

Sergt.  Frank  S.  Brown. 


HOLDING  THE  BRIDGE 

Night  after  night,  day  after  day, 

We  fought  and  backed  an3  fought  away; 

Until,  after  a  hundred  knocks, 

They  thought  they  had  us  on  the  rocks. 

Behind  our  force,  a  river  ran — 

A  single  bridge  its  water  span — 

If  they  could  gain  that  bridge's  head 

We'd  all  be  prisoners  or  dead. 

I  never  was  in  tighter  place. 

Or  ever  ran  a  closer  race. 

We  both  ceased  fire,  and  made  a  burst; 

But  thank  the  Lord !  we  got  there  first. 

And  though  our  ranks  with  lead  they  pound, 

Yet  like  grim  death  we  held  our  ground. 

And  making  little  of  our  loss 


HOLDING      THE      BRIDGE  H^ 

Until  the  last  man  got  across. 

And  there,  two  hundred  yards  away, 

Nine  sapper-men  in  ambush  lay. 

We  knew  it  was  their  biz  to  blow 
The  bloomin'  bridge  to  Jericho, 
But  saw  that  there  was  summat  wrong. 
Because  the  job,  it  took  too  long: 
Either  the  fuse  had  failed  to  fire, 
Or  else  a  shot  had  cut  the  wire. 
There  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done — 
Back  to  the  blasted  bridge  to  run. 
They  tried  it,  too,  those  Sappers  nine. 
For  they  were  bound  to  fire  that  mine. 

The  Captain  first  with  cigarette 
Between  his  lips,  his  teeth  firm  set, 
Strolled  quietly  across  the  ridge 
Towards  the  buttress  of  the  bridge, 


114  FROM       THE      FRONT 

And  then  turned  back  again,  and  talked 
To  his  own  men,  then  on  he  walked 
As  cool  as  if  he  was  on  parade. 
My  God !  he  drew  a  fusillade, 
Yet  on  he  went.    We  gave  a  cheer 
To  see  a  man   so  free  from  fear; 
But  we  the  words  had  hardly  spoke, 
When  right  in's  face  a  shell  it  broke : 
'Twas  one  of  Krupps'  brand-new  machines, 
And  blew  him  into  smithereens. 

Then  the  Lieutenant,  all  on  fire 
To  win  his  spurs,  and  fix  that  wire. 
Walked  out ;  you'd  think  it  was  a  race. 
He  went  at  such  a  clinking  pace, 
Fair  toe  and  heel.    They  hold  their  fire 
Till  he  is  close  beside  the  wire. 
And  then  the  fatal  word  they  give. 
And  riddle  him  just  like  a  sieve. 


HOLDING      THE      BRIDGE  "5 

He  hadn't  time  a  prayer  to  say; 
I  wonder  if  it  mattered — eh? 


And  next  the  Sergeant  had  his  try 

He  didn't  seem  the  least  bit  shy, 

He  didn't  dodge,  he  didn't  duck. 

But  marched  straight  on  till  he  was  struck. 

He  didn't  lie  down  like  a  lamb. 

But  died,  God  bless  him !  shouting  "Damn !" 

Then  one  with  two  stripes,  two  with  one, 
Then  three  without  like  red  shanks  run. 
But  one  and  all  of  them  were  copped, 
And  down  upon  the  race-course  dropped; 
And  we  were  done,  as  nigh's  could  be, 
For  that  left  only  one,  you  see. 

And  he  was  cute  as  a  pet  fox, 
He  didn't  step  out  of  his  box. 


Il6  FROM      THE      FRONT 

But  squatted  till  the  Klucking  Hen, 
Thinking  all  safe,  sent  on  his  men ; 
Then  stripped  his  body  to  his  pelt, 
And  drawing  tighter  in  his  belt, 
And  pulling  himself  close  together. 
He  raced  all  out,  just  hell  for  leather, 
Straight  for  the  bridge.    Oh!  it  was  prime! 
Clocking  the  course  in  even  time. 
The  German  bullets  round  him  spin 
As  thick  as  hail,  they  shaved  his  chin. 
They  drew  a  tooth,  they  singed  his  hair, 
They  cut  his  nails,  Gawdstrewth,  I  swear. 

No  sharpshooter  could  draw  a  bead 
On  one  with  such  a  turn  of  speed : 
For  all  our  lives  it  was  a  race 
Across  that  open  gun-swept  space, 
Both  armies  breathless   looking  on. 
But  bless  his  heart !  our  Sapper  won. 


HOLDING       THE       BRIDGE  1 1? 

He  was  a  daisy — that's  no  flattery : 
He  waited  till  a  German  battery 
Was  on  the  bridge ;  and  then  he  pressed 
The  button  of  his  bomb.     I'm  blessed! 
But  with  a  fizz,  a  bang,  a  flare, 
Up  went  the  bridge  into  the  air, 
With  gun  and  horse  and  Bombardier. 
From  out  our  ranks  a  mighty  cheer. 
That  almost  drowned  the  guns,  arose: 
To  hear  the  row  you  might  suppose 
It  was  a  match ;  and  we  had  kicked 
The  winning  goal,  and  Albion  licked. 

Arnold  F.  Graves. 


NEXT  MORNING 


Today  the  sun  shines  bright, 

There  is  a  delicate  freshness  in  the  air, 

Which,  like  a  nimble  sprite, 

Doth  play  upon  my  cheek  and  lift  my  hair. 

And,  as  I  look  about  me,  lo ! 

I  see  a  world  I  do  not  know! 

As  though  some  soft  celestial  beam, 

Some  clean  and  wholesome  grace. 

Had  purged  half  the  horror  of  the  place 

To  a  strange  beauty.     Was  it,  then,  a  dream, 

That  ghostly  march  but  yesternight, 

Beneath  the  moon's  uncertain  light, 

When  chill  at  heart  we  picked  our  ivay 

Through  dreadful,  silent  things,  that  lay 

Il8 


NEXT      MORNING  M9 

About  our  path  on  either  hand? 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  Is  this  the  self-same  land, 

The  land  we  pass'd  through  then? 

How  strange  it  seems ! — Yet  'tis  the  same ! 

I  see  from  here  the  path  by  which  we  came, 

The  tumbled  soil,  the  shatter 'd  trees  are  there : 

And  there,  in  desolation  sleeping. 

Almost  too  pitiful  for  weeping, 

The  little  village — once  the  home  of  men ! 

Aye,  the  whole  scene  is  there, 

As  desperate  in  its  abandonment. 

As  melancholy-wild  and  savage-bare 

As  then : — but  somehow  in  this  warm,  bright  air 

It  all  seems  different! 

The  same,  and  yet  I  know  it  not ! 

II 

Thus  much  I  see — But  there's  a  spot 
Thafs  hidden  from  mine  eyes. 
Behind  the  ruin'd  church  it  lies. 


120  FROM      THE      FRONT 

Where  gaping  vaults,  beneath  the  nave, 

Have  made  a  dreadful  kind  of  cave; 

And  there  before  the  cavern's  mouth 

A  dark  and  stagnant  pool  is  spread. 

So  silent  and  so  still! 

I  saw  it  last  i'  the  pale  moonlight; 

And  I  could  think  that  shapes  uncouth 

Crept  from  that  cave  at  dead  of  night 

With  ghoulish  stealth,  to  feast  their  till 

Upon  the  pale  and  huddled  dead! 

Yet  now, 

Happy,  beneath  this  warm  sunlight, 

Even  that  fearsome  pool  is  bright 

Under  the  cavern's  brow ! 

So  outward-fair,  that  few  might  guess 

The  secret  of  its  loathsomeness, 

Nor  know  what  nameless  things  are  done 

There,  with  the  setting  of  the  sun ! 

Lieut.  E.  A.  Wodehouse. 


AT  DAWN  IN  FRANCE 

Night  on  the  plains,  and  the  stars  unfold 

The  cycle  of  night  in  splendor  old ; 

The  winds  are  hushed,  on  the  fire-swept  hill 

All  is  silent,  shadowy,  still — 

Silent,  yet  tense  as  a  harp  high-strung 

By  a  master  hand  for  deeds  unsung. 

Slowly  across  the  shadowy  night 

Tremble  the  shimmering  wings  of  light, 

And  men  with  vigil  in  their  eyes 

And  a  fever  light  that  never  dies — 

Men  from  the  city,  hamlet,  town, 

Once  white  faces  tanned  to  brown, — 

Stand  to  the  watch  of  the  parapet 

And  watch,  with  rifles,  bayonets  set, 

For  the  great  unknown  that  comes  to  men 

Swift  as  the  light:  sudden,  then — 


122  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Dawn !  the  light  from  its  shimmering  wings 
Lights    up    their    faces    with    strange,    strange 

things : 
Strange  thoughts  of  love,  of  death  and  life, 
Serenity  'mid  sanguine  strife, — 
Dreams  of  life  where  the  feet  of  youth 
Rush  to  the  pinnacles  of  Truth  ; 
Where  early  dreams  with  pinions  fleet 
Rush  to  find  a  love  complete ; 
Of  Love  and  Youth  'neath  rosy  bowers 
Sensuous,  mad,  with  the  wine-filled  hours, 
Flushed  with  hope  and  joy's  delight. 
Weaving  rapture  from  the  night: — 
Visions  of  death  where  the  harp  is  still 
And  the  sun  sets  swiftly  behind  youth's  hill; 
Where  the  song  is  hushed  and  the  light  is  dead 
And  the  man  lies  with  the  remembered; 
Where  Memory  weaves  a  paradise, 
A  mother's  face,  her  tender  eyes, 
Her  suffering  for  the  child  she  gave. 


AT     DAWN      IN      FRANCE  I23 

Her  love  unbroken  by  the  grave; 
Where  shadows  gather  o'er  the  bliss, 
The  rapture  of  a  bridal  kiss : — 
Yet  dreams  where  Youth  (sublimity!) 
Doth  thrill  to  give  for  Liberty 
Its  love,  its  hope,  its  radiant  morn. 
Doth  thrill  to  die  for  the  yet  unborn, 
To  die  and  pay  the  utmost  price 
And  save  its  ideals  thro'  the  sacrifice. 

Thus  at  dawn  do  the  watchers  dream; 
Of  life  and  death,  of  love  supreme : 
Flushed  with  the  dawn,  hope  in  each  breast 
Their  faces  turn  to  the  starless  west: 
Thus  at  dawn  do  the  watchers  think 
Resolute-hearted  upon  death's  brink 

With  a  strange,  proud  look  on  every  face 

The  SCORN  of  Death,  the  PRIDE  of  race. 
Sergt.  J.  W.  Streets. 
(Killed  in  action,  July  i,  19 16) 


LINES  WRITTEN  SOMEWHERE  IN  THE 
NORTH  SEA 

The  laggard  hours  drift  slowly  by ;  while  silver 
mist-wreaths  veil  the  sky 

And  iron  coast  whereon,  flung  high,  the  North 
Sea  breaks  in  foam. 

When  flame  the  pallid  Northern  Lights  on  seem- 
ing age-long  Winter  nights, 

Then  oftentimes  for  our  delight  God  sends  a 
dream  of  Home. 

And  once  again  we  know  the  peace  of  little  red- 
roofed  villages 

That  nestle  close  in  some  deep  crease  amid  the 
rolling  wealds 

That  Northward,  Eastward,  Southward  sweep, 

fragrant  with  thyme  and  flecked  with  sheep, 
124 


IN      THE      NORTH      SEA  125 

To  where  the  corn  is  standing  deep  above  the 
ripening  fields. 

And  once  again  in  that  fair  dream  I  see  the 

sibilant  swift  stream — 
Now  gloomy — green  and  now  agleam — that  flows 

by  Furnace  Mill, 
And  hear  the  plover's  plaintive  cry  above  the 

common  at  Holtye, 
When  redly  glows  the  dusky  sky  and  all  the 

woods  are  still. 

Oh,  I  remember  as  of  old,  the  copse  aflame  with 

russet  gold, 
The  sweet  half-rotten  scent  of  mold,  the  while 

I  stand  and  hark 
To  unseen  woodland  life  that  stirs  before  the 

clamant  gamekeepers, 
Till,  sudden,  out  a  pheasant  whirrs  to  cries  of 

"Mark  cock,  mark!" 


126  FROM      THE      FRONT 

And  there  are  aged  inns  that  sell  the  mellow, 

cool  October  ale, 
What  time  one  tells  an  oft-told  tale  around  the 

friendly  fires, 
Until  the  clock  with  muffled  chime  asserts  that 

it  is  closing  time, 
And  o'er  the  fields   now  white  with   rime  the 

company  retires. 

How  long  ago  and  far  it  seems,  this  peaceful 
country  of  our  dreams, 

Of  fruitful  fields  and  purling  streams — the  Eng- 
land that  we  know : 

Who  holds  within  her  sea-girt  ring  all  that  we 
love,  and  love  can  bring; 

Ah,  Life  were  but  a  little  thing  to  give  to  keep 
her  so! 

Lieut.  N.  M.  F.  Corbett,  R.  N. 


BALLADE  OF  A  CATHEDRAL  CLOSE 

Before  me  on  the  crown 

Of  yonder  hilltop  high 
The  stark  howitzers  frown 

Remorseless  cruelty. 
A  sullen  shell  screams  by 


I  heed  not  how  it  goes, 
Seeing  in  memory 

The  old   Cathedral  close. 

The  elm  leaves  flutter  down 
And  round  the  wet  lawns  fly 

In  tawny  eddies  blown 
Which  mar  their  greenery. 

A  pearly-tinted  sky 

The  naked  boughs  disclose, 
127 


128  FROM       THE       FRONT 

And  bare  to  every  eye 
The  old  Cathedral  close. 

The  clamors  of  the  town 

Come  faint  as  dark  winds  sigh. 
Nor  can  avail  to  drown 

Its  sweet  tranquillity. 
Each  mellowing  century 

Has  sweetened  its  repose; 
No  strife  has  e'er  come  nigh 

The  old  Cathedral  close. 

Envoie 

So  I  must  still  defy 

The  menace  of  our  foes, 
And  save,  if  I  should  die, 

The  old  Cathedral  close. 

Lieut,  C.  A.  Macartney. 


WHEN  I  COME  HOME 

When  I  come  home,  dear  folk  o'  mine, 
We'll  drink  a  cup  of  olden  wine; 
And  yet,  however  rich  it  be, 
No  wine  will  taste  so  good  to  me 
As  English  air.     How  I  shall  thrill 
To  drink  it  on  Hampstead  Hill 
W^hen  I  come  home ! 

When  I  come  home,  and  leave  behind 

Dark  things  I  would  not  call  to  mind, 

I'll  taste  good  ale  and  home-made  bread, 

And  see  white  sheets  and  pillows  spread. 

And  there  is  one  who'll  softly  creep 

To  kiss  me,  ere  I  fall  asleep, 
129 


130  FROM       THE       FRONT 

And  tuck  me  'neath  the  counterpane. 
And  I  shall  be  a  boy  again 

When  I  come  home! 

When  I  come  home,  from  dark  to  light, 
And  tread  the  roadways  long  and  white, 
And  tramp  the  lanes  I  tramped  of  yore. 
And  see  the  village  greens  once  more, 
The  tranquil  farms,  the  meadows  free. 
The  friendly  trees  that  nod  to  me, 
And  hear  the  lark  beneath  the  sun, 
'Twill  be  good  pay  for  what  I've  done, 
When  I  come  home! 

Leslie  Coulson. 
(Killed  in  action,  Oct.  y,  1916) 


A  LARK  ABOVE  THE  TRENCHES 

Hushed  is  the  shriek  of  hurtling  shells :  and  hark ! 

Somewhere  within  that  bit  of  deep  blue  sky, 

Grand  in  his  loneliness,  his  ecstasy. 

His  lyric  wild  and  free,  carols  a  lark. 

I  in  the  trench,  he  lost  in  heaven  afar; 

I  dream  of  love,  its  ecstasy  he  sings; 

Both  lure  my  soul  to  love  till,  like  a  star. 

It  flashes  into  life:     O  tireless  wings 

That  beat  love's  message  into  melody — 

A  song  that  touches  in  the  place  remote 

Gladness  supreme  in  its  undying  note. 

And  stirs  to  life  the  soul  of  memory — 

'Tis  strange  that  while  you're  beating  into  life 

Men  here  below  are  plunged  in  sanguine  strife. 

Sergt.  John  William  Streets. 
131 


FOUR  RYE  SHEAVES 

Four  rye  sheaves  to  be  my  bed; 

"Now  God  me  save,"  was  the  prayer  I  said; 

And  sweet  was  the  sleep  that  came  to  me, 
For  I  was  home  where  I  fain  would  be; 

And  sweet  was  the  dream  that  sleep  did  yield, 
A  flowering  bank  and  a  daisied  field; 

A  lovers'  lane,  and  a  winsome  maid — 
But  I  never  heard  the  word  she  said ; 

I  never  heard  what  word  she  spoke, 
For  the  bugle  was  blown  and  I  awoke. 


132 


FOUR      RYE      SHEAVES  133 

Four  rye  sheaves  to  be  my  bed — 

But  where  this  night  may  I  lay  my  head? 

Four  rye  sheaves  to  be  my  bed — 
Will  she  come  w^ith  that  word  if  I  am  dead? 

Sergt.  Joseph  Lee. 


BROWN  EYES 

Song 

Oh,  two  brown  eyes  where  love-lit  shadows  swim 
Like  pools  asleep  and  lulled  by  evening's  hymn. 
How  can  such  two  brown  lustrous  eyes 
Disturb   my    dreams    with    dreams    of    warmer 

skies, 
Of  singing  birds  and  scented  flowers  of  spring, 
And  sounds  of  Austral's  bushlands  whispering? 
Ah,  I  forget  the  miles  of  heaving  sea 
That  distance  flings  'twixt  love  and  me 
And  two  brown  eyes. 

Frank  E.  Westbrook. 


134 


HILL  60 

As  some  far  swimmer,  turning,  views  once  more 
England's    white    cliffs,    and    strongly    cleaves 

t'ward  shore, 
But,  tide-encumbered,  faints ;  so  far  and  dear 
Thy  crystal  arms  and  pillared  throat  appear, 
Love,  to  thy  soldier  who  makes  earth  his  bed 
In  this  gray  catacomb  of  unnamed  dead. 
Thy  voice,  o'er  tossing  seas  of  eves  and  dawns, 
Comes  like  dim  music  heard  on  magic  lawns; 
And,  when  in  prayer  thou  kneelest,  this  grim 

brow 
Feels  the  cool  benison  of  hands  which  thou 
Wouldst  often  grant.     Now  know  I  'twas  not 

vain 

Our  love,  whose  memory  softens  present  pain. 

C.  J.  N.   (A.N.Z.A.C.) 
135 


ENVOY 

Only  if  I  am  remembered, 

Only  remembered  of  you, 
I  shall  not  fret  if  the  rest  forget 
The  vows  they  vowed   when  their  spirits  met. 

With  mine  in  a  bondage  new: 
Dead  be  the  fire  of  their  first  desire, 

All  their  roses  be  rue, — 
Only  if  I  am  remembered. 

Only  remembered  of  you. 

Only  if  I  am  remembered. 

Only  remembered  of  you, 

I  shall  be  strong,  tho'  the  years  be  long, 

Tho'  the  road  be  red  with  the  wounds  of  wrong. 

And  the  sky  bare  neve»  its  blue : 
136 


ENVOY  137 

Spring  of  delight  in  the  blast  and  blight, 
Love  shall  be  treasured  as  true, — 

Only  if  I  am  remembered, 
Only  remembered  of  you. 

Capt.  V.  E.  Stewart,  M.C 


TO  SISTER  E.  W. 

You  gave  me  a  white  carnation : 

Was  it  in  sympathy? 
And  did  you  know  the  flower  meant 

Youth's  glad  world  to  me? 

A  simple  white  carnation, 
Yet  you  seemed  to  understand 

What  I  craved  was  a  woman's  smile, 
The  touch  of  a  gentle  hand. 

So  you  gave  me  a  white  carnation—' 

'Twas  a  foolish  thing  to  do, 
For  whenever  I  see  carnations  now 

I  shall  always  think  of  you. 

H.  Smalley  Sarson. 
138 


THE  BOYS  OUT  THERE 

I  meet  with  the  boys  and  the  gay  toasts  pass, 
The  sparkling  wine  and  the  cheerful  glass, 
The  long  gray  nights  and  the  blazing  log, 
The  clinging  folds  of  the  misty  fog. 
The  comforts  of  homeland  everywhere — 
I  think  of  the  boys  who  are  still  out  there. 

Out  there  knee-deep  in  the  slush  and  mud, 
Splashed  and  mingled  with  comrades*  blood, 
Bearing  the  burden  of  those  who  lag 
And  fear  to  follow  the  dear  old  flag. 
Sunset's  gray  with  the  tint  of  care, 
For  millions  are  thinking  of  those  out  there. 

On  earth  goodwill  and  peace  to  men. 

It  sounds  like  a  hollow  mockery  when 
139 


I40  FROM       THE       FRONT 

I  mark  the  horrors  my  eyes  have  seen 
(They  can  never  know  who  have  never  been), 
War  stripped  of  its  glittering  glamour  bare — 
They  see  it  naked,  the  boys  out  there. 

They  are  fighting  a  sordid  war,  where  trench 

And  traverse  is  full  of  a  noisome  stench; 

There's  little  of  berserk  warrior  lust, 

It's  wait  and  suffer  while  bayonets  rust. 

It's  easy  to  dream  ip  an  easy-chair, 

But  I  dream  and  I  pray  for  the  boys  out  there. 

Out  there,  wherever  "out  there"  may  be. 

From  Belgium's  ruins  to  farthest  sea. 

Wherever  the  Union  Jack  still  flies. 

Flaunting  its  pride  to  the  shot-torn  skies. 

For  them  our  tenderest  loving  care — 

God  prosper  the  boys  who  are  still  out  there. 

Frank  E.  Westbrook. 
Epsom,  Xmas,  ipi^. 


THE  CHOICE 

I'd  rather  dean  a  bayonet  from  the  scarlet  stain 

upon  it, 
And  feel  that  I  was  helping  as  I  should, 
Than  be  widely  celebrated  as  the  author  of  a 

sonnet, 
Supposing  for  an  instant  that  I  could. 

Might  I  choose  between  the  making  of  a  sorely- 
needed  shell. 

And  painting  some  great  masterpiece  of  art, 

I'd  rather  work  at  Woolwich — and  I'd  try  to  do 
it  well. 

That  seems  to  be  by  far  the  finer  part. 

For  the  time  has  come  for  doing,  and  it's  better 

nowadays 

To  die  unknown,  unhonored,  undismayed, 
141 


142  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Than  to  live  in  selfish  comfort ;  just  a  man  who 

hip-hurrays. 
The  reckoning  that  other  men  have  paid. 

Eric  Thirkell  Cooper. 


TOMMY  AND  FRITZ 

He  hides  behind  his  sand-bag, 

And  I  stand  back  o'  mine ; 

And  sometimes  he  bellows,  "Hullo,  John  Bull !" 

And  I  hollers,  "German  swine!" 

And  sometimes  we  both  lose  our  bloomin"  rag, 

And  blaze  all  along  the  line. 

Sometimes  he  whistles  his  'Ymn  of  'Ate, 

Or  opens  his  mug  to  sing. 

And  when  he  gives  us  "Die  Wacht  am  Rhein" 

I  give  'im  "God  Save  the  King" ; 

And  then — we  "get  up  the  wind"  again, 

And  the  bullets  begin  to  ping — 

(If  we're  in  luck  our  machine  gun  nips 

A  working  squad  on  the  wing.) 
143 


144  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Sometimes  he  shouts,  "Tommy,  come  over!" 

And  we  fellers  bawl  out,  "Fritz, 

If  yer  wants  a  good  warm  breakfast. 

Walk  up  and  we'll  give  you  fits !" 

And  sometimes  our  great  guns  begin  to  growl, 

And  blows  his  front  line  to  bits. 

And  when  our  shrapnel  has  tore  his  wire, 
And  his  parapet  shows  a  rent, 
We  over  and  pays  him  a  friendly  call 
With  a  bayonet — but  no  harm  meant. 
And  he — well,  when  he's  resuscitate, 
He  returns  us  the  compliment! 

I  stand  behind  my  sand-bag, 

And  he  hides  back  o'  his'en ; 

And,  but  for  our  bloomin'  uniforms, 

We  might  both  be  convicts  in  pris'n ; 

And  sometimes  I  loves  him  a  little  bit — 

And  sometimes  I  'ate  like  p'ison. 


TOMMY      AND      FRITZ  145 

For  sometimes  I  mutters  "Belgium," 

Or  " Lusitani-a," 

And  I  slackens  my  bay'net  in  its  sheath, 

And  stiffens  my  lower  jaw, 

And  "An  eye  for  an  eye;  a  tooth  for  a  tooth," 

Is  all  I  know  of  the  Law. 

But  sometimes  when  things  is  quiet, 
And  the  old  kindly  stars  come  out, 
I  stand  up  behind  my  sand-bag. 
And  think,  "What's  it  all  about?" 
And — tho'  I'm  a  damned  sight  better  nor  him, 
Yet  sometimes  I  have  a  doubt, 
That  if  you  got  under  his  hide  you  would  see 
A  bloke  with  a  heart  just  the  same's  you  and  me ! 

Sergt.  Joseph  Lee. 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  EVACUATION 

Once  more  sits  Mahomet  by  Helles'  marges 
And  smokes  with  ease  among-  his  cypress-trees, 
Nor  snipes  from  scrubberies  at  British  targes 
Nor  views  them  wallowing  in  sacred  seas, 
But  cleans  his  side  arms  and  is  pleased  to  prattle 
Of  that  great  morning  when  he  woke  and  heard 
That  in  his  slumbers  he  had  fought  a  battle, 
A  bloody  battle,  and  a  little  bird 
Piped  (in  the  German)  at  his  side,  and  said, 
*The  something  infidels  have  been  and  fled." 

Cautious  he  crept  from  out  his  mountain-ditches, 

Down  the  long  gully,  past  the  Water  Towers ; 

By  Backhouse  Point  he  nosed  among  the  niches, 

But  they  were  hushed,  and  innocent  of  Giaours ; 
146 


REFLECTIONS  147 

Still  fearful  found  the  earthly  homes  we  haunted, 
Those    thirsty    stretches    where   the    rest-camps 

were, 
Then  the  sea  slunk  on,  a  trifle  daunted 
By  wreathed  wires  and  every  sort  of  snare, 
And  came  at  last,  incredulous,  to  find 
The  very  beach  all  blasphemously  mined. 

Now  on  each  hand  he  eyes  our  impious  labels. 
Bond    Street   and    Regent    Street,   those   weary 

ways ; 
Here  stands  the   Pink  Farm,  with  the  broken 

gables. 
Here  Oxford  Circus  marks  a  winding  maze; 
But  most,  I  ween,  in  scarred  grave-ridden  re- 
gions, 
O'er  many  a  battle-scene  he  loves  to  brood. 
How  Allah  here  was  gracious  to  his  legions, 
How  here,  again,  he  was  not  quite  so  good, 


14^  FROM       THE       FRONT 

Here  by  the  Brown  House,  when  the  bombs  be- 
gan, 
And  they — I  whisper  it — ^they  turned  and  ran. 

And  we  shall  no  more  see  the  great  ships  gather, 
Nor  hear  their  thunderings  on  days  of  state, 
Nor  toil  from  trenches  in  an  honest  lather 
To  magic  swimmings  in  a  perfect  Strait; 
Nor  sip  Greek  wine  and  see  the  slow  sun  drop- 
ping 
On  gorgeous  evenings  over  Imbrose  Isle, 
While  up  the  hill  the  Maxim  will  keep  popping, 
And  the  men  sing,  and  camp-fires  wink  awhile 
And  in  the  scrub  the  glow-worms  glow  like  stars, 
But   (hopeless  creatures)   will  not  light  cigars; 

Nor  daylong  linger  in  our  delv'd  lodges. 
And  fight  for  food  with  fifty  thousand  flies, 
Too  sick  and  sore  to  be  afraid  of  "proj's," 
Too  dazed  with  dust  to  see  the  turquoise  skies; 


REFLECTIONS  149 

Nor  walk  at  even  by  the  busy  beaches, 
Or  quiet  cliff-paths  where  the  Indians  pray, 
And  see  the  sweepers  in  the  sky-blue  reaches 
Of  Troy's  own  water,  where  the  Greek  ships  lay, 
And  touch  the  boat-hulks,  where  they  float  for- 
lorn, 
The  wounded  boats  of  that  first  April  morn; 

Nor  wake  unhappily  to  see  the  sun  come 

And  stand  to  arms  in  some  Cimmerian  grot — 

But  I,  in  town,  well  rid  of  all  that  bunkum, 

I  like  to  think  that  Mahomet  is  not ; 

He  must  sit  on,  now  sweltering,  now  frozen. 

By  draughty  cliff  and  many  a  mountain  holt. 

And,  when  rude  fears  afflict  the  propl"^^  chosen, 

Gird  on  his  arms  and  madly  work  his  bolt, 

While  from  the  heights  the  awful  whisp^s  run, 

"Herbert  the  bard  is  landing  with  his  gun." 

A.  P.  Herbert, 


ON  A  TROOPSHIP,  19 15 

Farewell !  the  village  leaning  to  the  hill, 

And  all  the  cawing  rooks  that  homeward  fly ; 

The  bees;  the  drowsy  anthem  of  the  mill; 

And  winding  pollards,  where  the  plover  cry. 

We  watch  the  breakers  crashing  on  the  bow 

And  those  far  flashes  in  the  Eastern  haze ; 

The  fields  and  friends,  that  were,  are  fainter 

now 

Than  whispering  of  ancient  water-ways. 

Now  England  stirs,  as  stirs  a  dreamer  wound 

In  immemorial  slumber :  lids  apart, 

Soon  will  she  rouse  her  giant  limbs  attuned 

To  that  old  music  hidden  at  her  heart. 

Farewell !  the  little  men  !    Their  menial  cries 

Are  distant  as  the  sparrows'  chatterings; 
150 


ON    A    TROOPSHIP,     1915  151 

She  rises  in  her  circuit  of  the  skies, 
An  eagle  with  the  dawn  upon  her  wings. 
We  come  to  harbor  in  the  breath  of  wars; 
Welcome  again  the  land  of  our  farewells ! 
In  this  strange  ruin  open  to  the  stars 
We  find  the  haven,  where  her  spirit  dwells : 
Where  the  near  guns  boom;  and  the  stricken 

towns  are  rolled 
Sk3Award,  a-thunder  with  their  trail  of  gold. 

H.  A. 


I9I5 

Year  of  high  hope  and  disappointment  deep, 

Gigantic  efforts  both  by  land  and  sea, 

Neuve  Chapelle,  Loos,  and  grim  GalHpoli, 

Whose  tales  of  valor  make  the  spirit  leap 

With  glowing  exultation,  and  then  weep 

To  think  how  those  brave  boys  with  eager  glee 

Defying  death,  to  keep  our  Britain  free, 

Rushed  on  their  fate,  and  now  in  silence  sleep. 

The  opening  year  saw  stretched  between  the  foes 

A  barrier  of  trenches  long  and  wide; 

That  barrier  stands  as  firmly  at  its  close 

Despite  the  thousands  who  have  fought  and  died. 

Away,  thou  year  of  frightfulness  and  hate, 

The  Lusitania's  doom,  sad  Serbia's  fate. 

H.  A.  Nesbitt,  M.A. 

December  31,  1915. 

152 


EASTER  AT  YPRES:  1915 

The  sacred  Head  was  bound  and  diapered, 
The  sacred  Body  wrapped  in  charnel  shroud, 
And  hearts  were  breaking,  hopes  that  towered 

were  bowed. 
And  life  died  quite  when  died  the  living  Word. 
So  lies  this  ruined  city.    She  hath  heard 
The  rush  of  foes  brutal  and  strong  and  proud, 
And  felt  their  bolted  fury.    She  is  plowed 
With  fire  and  steel,  and  all  her  grace  is  blurred. 

But  with  the  third  sun  rose  the  Light  indeed, 

Calm    and    victorious    though    with    brows    yet 

marred 

By  Hell's  red  flame  so  lately  visited. 

Nor  less  for  thee,  sweet  city,  better  starred 
153 


154  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Than  this  grim  hour  portends,  new  times  suc- 
ceed ; 
And  thou  shalt  reawake,  though  aye  be  scarred. 

W.  S.  S.  Lyon. 

A^.  B.  Written  in  a  "dug-out"  called  "Mon 
Privilege"  in  "Glencorse  Wood"  by  Westhoek 
near  Ypres,  April  p-io,  Easter  Week,  1915. 


THE  CATHEDRAL 

Hope  and  mirth  are  gone.     Beauty  is  departed. 
Heaven's  hid  in  smoke,  Jf  there's  Heaven  still. 
Silent  the  city,  friendless,  broken-hearted, 
Crying  in  quiet  as  a  widow  will. 
Oh,  for  the  sound  here  of  a  good  man's  laughter, 
Of  one  blind  beggar  singing  in  the  street, 
Where   there's    no    sound,    excepting   a   blazing 

rafter 
Falls,  or  the  patter  of  a  starved  dog's  feet. 

I  have  seen  Death,  and  comrades'  crumbled  faces, 

Yea,  I  have  closed  dear  eyes  with  half  a  smile; 

But  horror's  in  this  havoc  of  old  places 

Where  driven  men  once  rested  from  their  hurry, 
155 


156  FROM       THE       FRONT 

And  girls  were  happy  for  a  little  while 
Forgiving,  praying,  singing,  feeling  sorry. 

Capt.  William  G.  Shakespeare. 


GLIMPSE 

I  saw  you  fooling  often  in  the  tents 
With  fair  disheveled  hair  and  laughing  lips. 
And  frolic  elf  lights  in  your  careless  eyes, 
As  one  who  had  never  known  the  taste  of 

tears 
Or  the  world's  sorrow.    Then  on  march  one 

night, 
Halted  beneath  the  stars  I  heard  the  sound 
Of  talk  and  laughter,  and  glanced  back  to 

see 

If  you  were  there.    But  you  stood  far  apart 

And  silent,  bowed  upon  your  rifle  butt, 

And  gazed  into  the  night  as  one  who  sees. 
157 


158  FROM       THE      FRONT 

I  marked  the  drooping  lips  and  fathomless 

eyes 
And  knew  you  brooded  on  immortal  things. 
Lieut.  William  Noel  Hodgson. 
(Killed  in  Action) 
O.  T.  C.  Camp,  June,  IP14. 


THE  SOLDIER 

If  I  should  die,  think  this  of  me: 
That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.    There  shall  be 
In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed ; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made 

aware, 
Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to 

roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air, 
Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 
A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 
Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  Eng- 
land given ; 

159 


l6o  FROM       THE       F  R  O  x>y  T 

Her  sights  and  sounds ;  dreams  happy  as  her 

day; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gentle- 
ness, 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

Rupert  Brooke. 
{Died  April  2^,  1915) 


OUR  FATHERS 

Wandering  spirits,  seeking  lands  unknown, 
Such  were  our  fathers,  stout  hearts  unafraid. 
Have  we  been  faithless,  leaving  homes  they  made, 
With  their  life's  blood  cementing  every  stone? 
Nay,  when  the  beast-like  War  God  did  intone 
His  horrid  chant,  was  our  first  reckoning  paid 
For  years  of  ease.     Their  restless  spirits  bade 
Us  fight  with  those  whose  Homeland  was  their 
own. 

Rest  easy  in  your  graves,  the  spirit  lives 

That  brought  you  forth  to  claim  of  earth  the  best. 

Ours  it  is  now,  and  ours  it  shall  remain ; 

Mere  jealous  greed  no  honest  birthright  gives. 
i6i 


l62  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Shades  of  our  fathers,  hear  our  faith  confessed, 
We  shall  defend  your  Empire  or  be  slain. 

Capt,  James  Sprent. 


BEFORE  ACTION 

By  all  the  glories  of  the  day 
And  the  cool  evening's  benison, 
By  that  last  sunset  touch  that  lay 
Upon  the  hills  when  day  was  done, 
By  beauty  lavishly  outpoured 
And  blessings  carelessly  received, 
By  all  the  days  that  I  have  lived 
Make  me  a  soldier,  Lord. 

By  all  of  all  man's  hopes  and  fears. 

And  all  the  wonders  poets  sing, 

The  laughter  of  unclouded  years. 

And  every  sad  and  lovely  thing; 

By  the  romantic  ages  stored 

With  high  endeavor  that  was  his, 
163 


164  FROM      THE      FRONT 

By  all  his  mad  catastrophes 
Make  me  a  man,  O  Lord. 

I,  that  on  my  famiHar  hill 
Saw  with  uncomprehending  eyes 
A  hundred  of  Thy  sunsets  spill 
Their  fresh  and  sanguine  sacrifice, 
Ere  the  sun  swings  his  noonday  sword 
Must  say  good-by  to  all  of  this ; — 
By  all  delights  that  I  shall  miss. 
Help  me  to  die,  O  Lord. 

Lieut.  William  Noel  Hodgson. 
June  2p,  ipi6. 


AT  SEA 

Written  on  board  a  transport  in  the 
Mediterrafiean. 

The  darkling  night,  crowning  the  aery  vault 
Of  many-starred  Heaven,  and  the  deep, 
Foam-fleck'd  and  ever-changing  mass  of  sea ; 
The  vessel  gliding  on,  forbidding  sleep. 

This  awesome  scene,  touching  the  inmost  chord 
The  human  heart  possesses,  ope's  the  door 
Of  soul,  and  bids  it  wake  and  think  of  peace, 
Putting  aside  the  baneful  curse  of  war. 

O,  God  of  Hosts !  Giver  of  all  that's  good. 

List  to  my  prayer  and  let  me  make  amends 

For  past  forgetfulness,  and  to  me  grant 

Sure,  safe  return  for  all  my  own,  my  friends. 
165 


l66  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Grant  I  may  think  less  of  my  life,  myself — 
O !  give  me  grace  that  I  my  course  may  run, 
Doing  my  work,  commending  all  I  have — 
My  life,  my  all  to  Thee.    Thy  will  be  done! 

D.  O.  L. 


A  CONFESSION  OF  FAITH 

Who  would  remember  me  were  I  to  die, 
Remember  with  a  pang  and  yet  no  pain; 
Remember  as  a  friend,  and  feel  good-by 
Said  at  each  memory  as  it  wakes  again  ? 

I  would  not  that  a  single  heart  should  ache — 
That  some  dear  heart  will  ache  is  my  one  grief. 
Friends,  if  I  have  them,  I  would  fondly  take 
With  me  that  best  of  gifts,  a  friend's  belief. 

I  have  believed,  and  for  my  faith  reaped  tares ; 

Believed  again,  and,  losing,  was  content ; 

A  heart  perchance  touched  blindly,  unawares, 

Rewards  with  friendship  faith  thus  freely  spent. 
167 


l68  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Bury  the  body — it  has  served  its  ends ; 
Mark  not  the  spot,  but  "On  Gallipoli," 
Let  it  be  said,  "he  died."    Oh,  Hearts  of  Friends, 
If  I  am  worth  it,  keep  my  memory. 

Capt.  James  Sprbnt. 


"AT  NIGHT-TIDE" 

When  all  the  dalliance  days  of  youth-time  are 

agone, 
When  gladness  stands  usurped  by  pregnant  fears ; 
O  Spirit  of  diviner  days, 
Help  me  to  meet  the  leaner  years ! 

When   Fate's  last  utterance  makes  the  vacant 

chair, 
And  omnipresent  sorrow  haunts  the  night; 
O  Spirit  of  diviner  days. 
Steel  me  to  face  the  lonely  fight ! 

So  stoop,  when  weary  eyes  no  more  may  search 

the  day 

When   Lethe's    pall   enwraps    the    dawn-wind's 

breath ; 

169 


17°  FROM       THE      FRONT 

O  Spirit  of  diviner  days, 

Gird  me — that  I  may  valiantly  face  death ! 

2ND  Lieut.  H.  E.  Whiting-Baker. 


SONNET 

Look  up,  O  stricken  eyes  that  long  have  pored 
Over  the  sickliness  of  a  young  heart 
Diseased  with  double  doubt  and  the  abhorred 
Drugs  of  Self-will  and  Pity.    Scan  the  chart 
Of  freedom  in  a  new  and  noble  cause. 
The  past  is  dead.    A  New  Age  now  begins 
Of  noble  servitude  to  nobler  laws 
Than  those  that  barred  by  custom  your  lame  sins. 

All  that  is  terrible  is  yours  to  face, — 

You  that  once  sought  the  dark  noon  of  the  storm 

And  only  found  a  dust  and  a  disgrace, — 

Peril  affronts  you  in  heroic  form : 

Lift  up  your  head.     Prove  that  which  was  your 

boast 
Though  deemed  long  dead, — or  be  for  ever  lost ! 

Robert  Nichols. 
171 


THE  SILENCE 

This  is  indeed  a  false,  false  night; 
There's  not  a  soldier  sleeps, 
But  like  a  ghost  stands  to  his  post, 
While  Death  through  the  long  sap  creeps. 

There's  an  eerie  filmy  spell  o'er  all— • 
A  murmur  from  the  sea ; 
And  not  a  sound  on  the  hills  around — 
Say,  what  will  the  silence  be  ? 

R.  J.  Godfrey.  (A.N.Z.A.C.) 


172 


CHALLENGE 

Go  tell  yon  shadow  stalking  'neath  the  trees 

With  silent-footed  terror,  go  tell  Death 

He  cannot  with  Life's  vast  uncertainties 

Affright  the  heart  of  Youth  !  for  Youth  cometh 

With  flush  of  impulse,  passion  to  defeat, 

Undaunted  purpose,  vision  clear  descried. 

To  counteract,  lay  at  Death's  unseen  feet 

The  gauntlet  of  defiance.    Far  and  wide, 

Beyond  the  fear  of  that  unknown  exile, 

That  brim   of   Time,   that   web   of   darkness 

drawn 

Across  Life's  orient  sky,  there  breaks  a  smile 

Of  light  that  swells  into  the  hope  of  dawn : 

A  dream  within  the  dark,  like  evening  cool. 

Like  sunset  mirror'd  in  yon  darken'd  pool. 

Sergt.  J.  W.  Streets. 
173 


I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH 
DEATH  .  .  . 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

At  some  disputed  barricade, 

When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustHng  shade 

And  apple-blossoms  fill  the  air — 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 

And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 

And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath — 

It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 

When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 

And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear. 
174 


\ 


RENDEZVOUS       WITH       DEATH        175 

God  knows  'twere  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  Love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear  .  .  . 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year. 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

Alan  Seeger. 

(Killed  in  Action,  July  5,  1916) 


THE  DEAD 

Blow  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead ! 
There's  none  of  these  so  lonely  and  poor  of  old, 
But,  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than  gold. 
These  laid  the  world  away ;  poured  out  the  red 
Sweet  wine  of  youth ;  gave  up  the  years  to  be 
Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  serene, 
That  men  call  age ;  and  those  who  would  have 

been. 
Their  sons,  they  gave,  their  immortality. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow !    They  brought  us,  for  our 

dearth. 

Holiness,  lacked  so  long,  and  Love,  and  Pain. 

Honor  has  come  back,  as  a  king,  to  earth. 

And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage; 
176 


T  H  E      D  E  A  D  177 

And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again; 
And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 

Rupert  Brooke. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  GALLIPOLI 

The  herdman  wandering  by  the  lonely  rills 
Marks  where  they  lie  on  the  scarred  mountain's 

flanks, 
Remembering  that  wild  morning  when  the  hills 
Shook  to  the  roar  of  guns  and  those  wild  ranks 
Surged  upward  from  the  sea. 

None  tends  them.     Flowers  will  come  again  in 

spring, 
And  the  torn  hills  and  those  poor  mounds  be 

green. 

Some  bird  that  sings  in  English  woods  may  sing 

To  English  lads  beneath — the  wind  will  keep 

Its  ancient  lullaby. 

178 


THE     GRAVES     OF     GALLIPOLI     179 

Some  flower  that  blooms  beside  the  Southern 

foam 
May  blossom  where  our  dead  Australians  lie, 
And  comfort  them  with  whispers  of  their  home ; 
And  they  will  dream,  beneath  the  alien  sky. 
Of  the  Pacific  Sea. 

"Thrice  happy  they  who  fell  beneath  the  walls, 
Under  their  father's  eyes,"  the  Trojan  said, 
"Not  we  who  die  in  exile  where  who  falls 
Must  lie  in  foreign  earth."    Alas !  our  dead 
Lie  buried  far  away. 

Yet  where  the  brave  man  lies  who  fell  in  fight 
For  his  dear  country,  there  his  country  is. 
And  we  will  mourn  them  proudly  as  of  right — 
For  meaner  deaths  by  weeping  and  loud  cries : 
They  died  pro  patria ! 


l8o  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Oh,  sweet  and  seemly  so  to  die,  indeed. 
In  the  high  flush  of  youth  and  strength  and  pride. 
These  are  our  martyrs,  and  their  blood  the  seed 
Of  nobler  futures.    'Twas  for  us  they  died. 
Keep  we  their  memory  green. 

This  be  their  epitaph.    "Traveler,  south  or  west, 
Go,  say  at  home  we  heard  the  trumpet  call, 
And  answered.     Now  beside  the  sea  we  rest. 
Our  end  was  happy  if  our  country  thrives : 
Much  was  demanded.    Lo !  our  store  was  small — 
That  which  we  had  we  gave — it  was  our  lives." 

L.  L.  (A.N.Z.A.C.) 


THE  UNBURIED 

Now   snowflakes   thickly    falling   in  the   winter 

breeze 
Have  cloaked  alike  the  hard,  unbending  ilex 
And  the  gray,  drooping  branches  of  the  olive 

trees, 
Transmuting  into  silver  all  their  lead; 
And,  in  between  the  winding  Hnes,  in  No-Man's 

Land, 
Have  softly  covered  with  a  glittering  shroud 
The  unburied  dead. 

And  in  the  silences  of  night,  when  winds  are 

fair, 

When   shot  and   shard  have  ceased  their  wild 

surprising, 

i8i 


l82  FROM       THE       FRONT 

I  hear  a  sound  of  music  in  the  upper  air, 
Rising  and  falling  till  it  slowly  dies — 
It  is  the  beating  of  the  wings  of  migrant  birds 
Wafting  the  souls  of  these  unburied  heroes 
Into  the  skies. 

M.  R.  (N.  Z.  Headquarters.) 


"IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS" 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 
Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
That  mark  our  place ;  and  in  the  sky 
The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly 
Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  Dead.    Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow, 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe: 

To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 

The  torch;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high. 
183 


l84  FROM       THE      FRONT 

If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 
In  Flanders  fields. 

LiEUT.-CoL.  John  McCrae. 


A  DEAD  GERMAN 

O  mystical  and  magic  moon, 

That  sheds  soft  light  on  this  dead  face 
That's  like  King  Arthur's  in  his  swoon, 

O  mystical  and  magic  moon, 
Tremulously  I  crave  a  boon  : 

"When  my  times  comes,  do  me  this  grace," 
O  mystical  and  magic  moon 

That  sheds  soft  light  on  this  dead  face ! 
Lieut.  C.  G.  L.  Du  Cann. 


185 


"I  TRACKED  A  DEAD  MAN  DOWN  A 
TRENCH" 

I  tracked  a  dead  man  down  a  trench, 
I  knew  not  he  was  dead. 
They  told  me  he  had  gone  that  way, 
And  there  his  foot-marks  led. 

The  trench  was  long  and  close  and  curved. 
It  seemed  without  an  end ; 
And  as  I  threaded  each  new  bay 
I  thought  to  see  my  friend. 

I  went  there,  stooping  to  the  ground. 

For,  should  I  raise  my  head, 

Death  watched  to  spring;  and  how  should 

then 

A  dead  man  find  the  dead  ? 
i86 


"l     TRACKED    A     DEAD     MAN"      187 

At  last  I  saw  his  back.    He  crouched 
As  still  as  still  could  be, 
And  when  I  called  his  name  aloud 
He  did  not  answer  me. 

The  floor-way  of  the  trench  was  wet 
Where  he  was  crouching  dead : 
The  water  of  the  pool  was  brown. 
And  round  him  it  was  red. 


I  stole  up  softly  where  he  stayed 
With  head  hung  down  all  slack, 
And  on  his  shoulders  laid  my  hands 
And  drew  him  gently  back. 


And  then,  as  I  had  guessed,  I  saw 
His  head,  and  how  the  crown — 


l88  FROM       THE      FRONT 

I  saw  then  why  he  crouched  so  still, 
And  why  his  head  hung  down. 

W.  S.  S.  Lyon. 

A^.  B.     Written  in  the  trenches  by  "Glencorse 
Wood,"  April  19-20,  1915. 


FALLEN 

We  talked  together  in  the  days  gone  by 
Of  Hfe  and  of  adventure  still  to  come, 
We  saw  a  crowded  future,  you  and  I, 
And  at  its  close  two  travelers  come  home, 
Full  of  experience,  wise,  content  to  rest. 
Having  faced  life  and  put  it  to  the  test. 

Already  we  had  seen  blue  skies  grow  bleak, 
And  learned  the  fickleness  of  fate,  firsthand ; 
We  knew  each  goal  meant  some  new  goal  to 

seek. 
Accepting  facts  we  couldn't  understand ; 
You  seemed  equipped  for  life's  most  venturous 

way — 
Death  closed  the  gallant  morning  of  your  day. 


190  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Oh,  many  a  one  still  watching  others  go 
Might  fall,  and  leave  no  such  heart-sickening 

gap. 
What  waste,  what  pity  't  seems  to  squander  so 
Courage  that  dared  whatever  ill  might  hap. 
While  laggards,  fearful  both  of  worst  and  best, 
Hoard  up  the  life  you  hazarded  with  zest ! 

It  seems  like  waste  to  others,  but  to  you 

And  the  thronged  heroes  who  have  paid  the 

price. 
Yourselves,  your  hopes,  and  all  you  dreamed 

and  knew. 
Were  counted  as  a  puny  sacrifice — 
You   knew,    with   keener    judgment,   all   was 

gained. 
If  honor  at  the  last  shone  still  unstained! 
Corp.  W.  Kersley  Holmes. 


A  GRAVE  IN  FLANDERS 

All  night  the  tall  trees  over-head 
Are  whispering  to  the  stars ; 
Their  roots  are  wrapped  about  the  dead 
And  hide  the  hideous  scars. 

The  tide  of  war  goes  rolling  by, 
The  legions  sweep  along; 
And  daily  in  the  summer  sky 
The  birds  will  sing  their  song. 

No  place  is  this  for  human  tears, 

The  time  for  tears  is  done ; 

Transfigured  in  these  awful  years. 

The  two  worlds  blend  in  one. 
191 


192  FROM       THE      FRONT 

This  boy  had  visions  while  in  life 
Of  stars  on  distant  skies; 
So  death  came  in  the  midst  of  strife 
A  sudden,  glad  surprise. 

He  found  the  songs  for  which  he  yearned, 
Hopes  that  had  mocked  desire; 
His  heart  is  resting  now  which  burned 
With  such  consuming  fire. 

So  down  the  ringing  road  we  pass, 
And  leave  him  where  he  fell, 
The  guardian  trees,  the  waving  grass. 
The  birds  will  love  him  well. 

Frederick  George  Scott. 


MEMORIES 

The  tall  pines  tower  gauntly 

Above  my  bedroom  eaves, 

With  the  moon,  like  a  ghost,  behind  them 

Peering  between  their  leaves. 

The  air  is  warm  and  balmy, 

And  the  hillside  bathed  in  light, 

But  a  restless  mood  is  on  me 

As  I  think  of  another  night. 

Still  more  bright  was  the  moonlight, 

For  the  fields  were  swathed  in  snow. 

And  the  moon  peered  down  through  the 

pine-trees, 

On  the  hard,  white  ground  below. 

But  often  to  aid  the  moonbeams 

A  "starlight"  soared,  and  fell, 
193 


194  FROM       THE       FRONT 

And  now  and  again,  to  southward, 

The  flash  of  a  bursting  shell. 

Deep,  deep  black  the  shadows 

On  the  hard  white  surface  showed, 

Of  the  tall,  steep,  wooded  hillside 

Above  where  the  Ancre  flowed 

Out  from  the  German  trenches 

Silently  through  our  own, 

And  we  stood  by  the  bank  above  it, 

Leslie  and  I,  alone. 

Near  us,  a  watchful  sentry. 

Gazing  across  the  wire, 

And  three,  in  a  tiny  dug-out. 

Crouched  round  a  brazier  fire. 

We  talked,  as  we  stood  together. 

As  we  often  before  had  done, 

Of  the  times  we  should  have  together. 

When  at  last  the  war  was  won ! 

Much  we  planned  that  evening, 


MEMORIES  195 

Of  the  wonderful  days  in  store, 
When  trench  life  should  be  as  a  night- 
mare, 
And  an  ugly  dream  the  war. 

You  went,  old  man,  before  me; 
You  died  as  I  knew  you,  game; 
And  "the  wonderful  days  in  store"  now 
Could  never  appear  the  same. 
With  the  best  of  pals  to  share  them 
What  mad,  glad  days  they  would  be  ! 
But  the  best  of  my  pals  lies  buried 
In  shell-scarred  Picardy. 

A  cloud  drifts  over  the  moonface, 
And  the  air  has  grown  more  chill; 
I  turn  from  the  open  window 
While  the  shadow  climbs  the  hill. 
But  my  mind  still  runs  on  that  evening 


196  FROM      THE      FRONT 

When  the  moon  shone  through  the  pines 
That  grow  by  the  Ancre  River, 
Behind  the  British  lines; 
When  Leslie  and  I  together 
Stood  in  the  crisp,  white  snow. 
With  the  dug-out  light  above  us. 
And  the  running  stream  below; 
And  spoke  of  home  and  dear  ones. 
And  mentioned  not  the  war. 
But  only  the  days  to  follow. 
The  wonderful  days  in  store. 
Lieut,  Eric  Fitzwater  Wilkinson,  M.C 


THE  VOLUNTEER 

Here  lies  a  clerk  who  half  his  life  had  spent 
Toiling  at  ledgers  in  a  city  gray, 
Thinking  that  so  his  days  would  drift  away 
With  no  lance  broken  in  life's  tournament: 
Yet  ever  'twixt  the  books  and  his  bright  eyes 
The  gleaming  eagles  of  the  legions  came, 
And  horsemen,  charging  under  phantom  skies, 
Went  thundering  past  beneath  the  oriflamme. 

And  now  those  waiting  dreams  are  satisfied ; 

From  twilight  into  spacious  dawn  he  went ; 

His  lance  is  broken ;  but  he  lies  content 

With  that  high  hour,  in  which  he  lived  and 

died. 

And  falling  thus  he  wants  no  recompense, 
197 


?8  FROAI       THE       FRONT 

Who  found  his  battle  in  the  last  resort ; 
Nor  needs  he  any  hearse  to  bear  him  hence, 
Who  goes  to  join  the  men  of  Agincourt. 

Herbert  Asquith 


GOOD-BY 

Evacuation  of  Gallipoli,  IQ15 

It  has  come  to  the  last  and  it's  good-by,  Bill, 
I'm  sick  at  the  heart  and  sad 
To  leave  you  sleeping,  old  cobber,  the  best 
That  ever  a  swaddy  had. 

Somebody's  bungled  the  job,  it  is  said, 

Who,  it  isn't  for  me  to  know, 

But  leaving  the  place  where  you  fought  and 

died 
Is  stabbing  my  heart  to  go. 

The  lanes  of  mounds  on  the  beach  and  hills, 

In  the  spots  that  we  fought  to  win, 

The  pledges  of  victories  tardily  won, 

The  graves  of  an  Empire's  kin. 
199 


200  FROM       THE      FRONT 

We're  going,  but  over  Australia  way 
They  will  speak  with  a  welling  pride 
Of  sons  who  have  answered  the  call  to  arms 
From  the  city  and  countryside. 

And  whether  we're  leaving  or  whether  we  stay 
It  is  much  in  a  way  the  same, 
For  deep  in  the  side  of  the  green  tree — Fame — 
Is  bitten  Australia's  name. 

I'm  going,  but  hoping  to  meet  again 

On  the  level  the  wily  Turk, 

For  fighting  and  crouching  in  traverse  and 

trench 
Is  a  sordid  kind  of  work. 

But  war  is  war,  and  it's  little  to  say 
That  our  enemy  played  the  game ; 
He  fought  as  clean  as  a  soldier  may, 
But  I  hate  him  just  the  same. 


G  O  0  D  -  B  Y  201 

For  I  can't  forget  when  you  took  the  count 
In  a  stunt  to  the  left  of  Quinns', 
A  night  as  black  as  the  ace  of  spades 
Or  a  fallen  Satyr's  sins. 

Soft  sentiment  isn't  for  soldier  men; 
But  I  swear  when  it's  steel  to  steel 
The  point  of  my  bayonet  dripping  red 
Will  prove  of  the  things  I  feel. 

So  good-by,  Bill,  if  the  Fates  are  kind 
When  the  wattle  trees  burst  to  flame, 
I  will  twine  a  wreath  at  my  saddle  bow 
To  honor  my  comrade's  name. 

Or  dozing  along  on  the  old  stock  horse, 

In  the  wake  of  the  straying  sheep, 

Little  doubt  that  I'll  dream  of  this  shell-torn 

spot 
Where  I  left  you  here  to  sleep. 


202  FROM       THE      FRONT 

Asleep  with  honor  I  leave  you  now, 
You  died  as  you  wished  to  die. 
The  days  will  be  longer  without  you,  Bill; 
Good-by,  old  fellow,  good-by. 

Frank  E.  Westbrook. 
February,  ipi6. 


MATEY 

(Cambrin,  May,  1915) 

Not  comin'  back  tonight,  matey, 
And  reliefs  are  comin'  through, 
We're  all  goin'  out  all  right,  matey, 
Only  we're  leavin'  you. 
Gawd !  it's  a  bloody  sin,  matey. 
Now  that  we've  finished  the  fight, 
We  go  when  reliefs  come  in,  matey, 
But  you're  stayin'  'ere  tonight. 

Over  the  top  is  cold,  matey — 

You  lie  on  the  field  alone, 

Didn't  I  love  you  of  old,  matey, 

Dearer  than  the  blood  of  my  own? 

You  were  my  dearest  chum,  matey— 
203 


204  FROM       THE      FRONT 

(Gawd!  but  your  face  is  white) 
But  now,  though  reliefs  'ave  come,  matey, 
■   I'm  goin'  alone  tonight. 

I'd  sooner  the  bullet  was  mine,  matey — 

Goin'  out  on  my  own, 

Leavin'  you  "ere  in  the  line,  matey, 

All  by  yourself,  alone, 

Chum  o'  mine  and  you're  dead,  matey, 

And  this  is  the  way  we  part. 

The  bullet  went  through  your  head,  matey, 

But  Gawd !  it  went  through  my  'eart. 

Patrick  MacGill. 


PRAYER  FOR  OUR  ARMIES  AT  THE 
FRONT 

O  Lord  of  Hosts,  Whose  mighty  arm 
In  safety  keeps  mid  war's  alarm, 
Protect  our  soldiers  at  the  Front 
Who  bear  of  war  the  bitter  brunt. 
And  in  the  hour  of  danger  spread 
Thy  sheltering  wings  above  each  head. 

In  battle's  harsh  and  dreadful  hour 
Make  bare  Thine  arm  of  sovereign  power, 
And  fight  for  them  who  fight  for  Thee, 
And  give  Thine  own  the  victory. 
O,  in  the  hour  of  danger  spread 
Thy  sheltering  wings  above  each  head. 

If  by  the  way  they  wounded  be, 

O  listen  to  their  plaintive  cry, 
205 


206  FROM       THE      FRONT 

And  rest  them  on  Thy  loving  breast 
O  Thou  on  Whom  the  cross  was  pressed ; 
And  in  the  hour  of  danger  shed 
Thy  glorious  radiance  o'er  each  head. 

When  pestilence  at  noonday  wastes, 
And  death  in  triumph  onward  hastes, 
O  Saviour  Christ,  remember  Nain, 
And  give  us  our  beloved  again. 
In  every  ward  of  sickness  tread. 
And  lay  Thine  hand  upon  each  head. 

O  Friend  and  Comforter  divine, 
Who  makest  light  at  midnight  shine, 
Give  consolation  to  the  sad 
Who  in  the  days  of  peace  were  glad. 
And  in  the  hour  of  sorrow  spread 
Thy  wings  above  each  drooping  head. 

Rev.  Thomas  Tiplady,  Chaplain. 


SONNET 

Coming  in  splendor  thro'  the  golden  gate 

Of  all  the  days,  swift  passing,  one  by  one, 

Oh,  silent  planet,  thou  hast  gazed  upon 

How  many  harvestings,  dispassionate? 

Across  the  many-furrowed  fields  of  Fate, 

Wrapt  in  the  mantle  of  oblivion, 

The  old,  gray,  wrinkled  Husbandman  has  gone^ 

Sowing  and  reaping,  lone  and  desolate — 

The  blare  of  trumpets,  rattle  of  the  drum, 

Disturb  him  not  at  all — He  seej, 

Between  the  hedges  of  the  centuries, 

A  thousand  phantom  armies  go  and  come. 

While  Reason  whispers  as  each  marches  past, 

"This  is  the  last  of  wars,— this  is  the  last !" 

Lieut.  Gilbert  Waterhouse. 

(Wounded  and  Missing,  July  i,  19 16) 
207 


WAR 

Where  war  has  left  its  wake  of  whitened  bone, 
Soft  stems  of  summer  grass  shall  wave  again, 
And  all  the  blood  that  war  has  ever  strewn 
Is  but  a  passing  stain. 

Leslie  Coulson. 


208 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS 

PAGE 

A.,  H. 

On  a  Troopship,  1915 

(In  Spectator,  vol.  117) 150 

Anzac  Book,  The  (Written  and  illustrated  in 
Gallipoli  by  the  Men  of  Anzac,  Cas- 
sell  &  Company,  Lond.  Funk  &  Wag- 
nails  Company,  N.  Y.,  1916). 

A  Wail  from  Ordnance.  Lieut.  Kininmonth  54 

Our    Fathers,    Captain    James    Sprent     .     .  161 

A  Confession  of  Faith.  Capt.  James  Sprent  167 

The  Silence,  Private  R.  J.  Godfrey     ...  172 

Marching    Song,    C.    J.    N 40 

The    Happy    Warrior,    M.    R 46 

Hill  60,  C.'J.  X 135 

The  Graves  of  Gallipoli,  L.  L 178 

The  Unburied,   M.  R 181 

AsQuiTH,  Herbert 

The   Volunteer 197 

("The  Volunteer  and  Other  Poems,"    Sidg- 
wick  and  Jackson,  Ltd.,  Lond.,  1915). 

Blackall,  Captain  C.  W. 
"Attack!"        89 

Song  of  the  Trench i 

The  Ration  Rasher 57 

("Songs  from  the  Trenches,"  John  Lane, 
Lond.,  1915). 

209 


2IO  INDEX       OF      AUTHORS 

PAGE 

Brooke,  Rupert 

The  Dead 176 

The    Soldier 159 

("Collected  Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke," 
John  Lane  Company,  N.  Y.,  1915). 

Brown,  Sergt.  Frank  S.  (P.  P.  C.  L.  I.) 

"Fall   In" 5 

The    Veteran 95 

Glory 107 

("Contingent  Ditties  and  Soldier  Songs 
of  the  Great  War,"  Sampson  Low, 
Marston,  Lond.,  1915). 

Cooper,  Epic  Thirkell 

Dawn  in  the  Trenches 13 

Night   Attack 92 

Night  in  the  Trenches 70 

The   Choice 141 

The  Mercy  Ship 36 

("Soliloquies  of  a  Subaltern  Somewhere 
in  France,"  Burns  and  Gates,  Ltd., 
Lond.,  1915). 

Corbett,  Lieut.  N.  M.  F.  (R.N.) 

Lines  Written  Somewhere  in  the  North  Sea     124 

The  Sailing  of  the  Fleet 20 

("Naval  Motley:  Verses  Written  at  Sea 
during  the  War  and  Before  It,"  Me- 
thuen  and  Company,  Ltd.,  Lond.,  1916). 

CouLsoN,    Leslie    (London    Regiment    Royal 
Fusiliers) 

War       208 

When   I    Come   Home 129 

("From  an  Outpost  and  Other  Poems," 
Erskine  MacDonald,  Ltd.,  Lond.,  1917). 


INDEX       OF      AUTHORS  211 

PAGE 

Du  Cann,  Lieut.  C.  G.  L. 

A   Dead   German 185 

("Triolets   from   the   Trenches,"   Erskine 
MacDonald,  Ltd.,  Lend.,  1917). 

"Etienne"  (Lieut.  R.  N.) 

The   Hounds  of  the   Night 26 

("Verses  from  the  Grand  Fleet,"  Erskine 
MacDonald,  Ltd.,  Lond.,  1917). 

Frankau,  Gilbert 

Ammunition  Column 3^ 

Signals       ^ 

("The  Guns,"  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Com- 
pany, 1917)- 

Godfrey,    Private    R.    J.    (7th    Aust.    Field 
Amb.) 
The   Silence 172 

(See  "Anzac  Book"). 

GuRNER,  Ronald 
A  Quiet  Night 74 

('War's   Echo,"  T.   Fisher  Unwin,  Ltd., 
Lond.,   1917). 

Graves,  Arnold  F. 

Holding   the    Bridge 112 

("The  Long  Retreat  and  Other  Doggerel," 
John  Murray,  Lond.,  1915). 

Herbert,  A.  P. 
The   Bathe 38 

Some    Reflections    on    the    Evacuation     .     .     146 
("Half-Hours  at  Helles,"  B.  H.  Blackwell, 
Oxford,  1916). 


212  INDEX       OF      AUTHORS 

PAGE 

Hodgson,    William    Noel    (Late    Lieut.    9th 
Devons,  M.  C.) 

Before   Action 163 

Glimpse 157 

("Verse  and  Prose  in  Peace  and  War," 
Smith,  Elder  and  Company,  Lond., 
1917). 

Holmes,  Corp.  W.  Kersley 

Peter's    Pudding 59 

The    Trumpeter 14 

("Ballads  of  Field  and  Billet,"  Alex. 
Gardner,  Paisley,  1915). 

Fallen 189 

The    Soldier   Mood 52 

Horse   Bathing  Parade 34 

("More  Ballads  of  Field  and  Billet," 
Alex.  Gardner,  Paisley,  1915). 

KiNiMONTH,  Lieut.  (A.O.C.) 

A  Wail  from  Ordnance 54 

(See  "Anzac  Book"). 

Knight-Adkin,  Captain  J.  H.  (Royal  Glou- 
cestershire Reg't) 

No  Man's   Land 67 

In  No  Man's  Land  with  the  Night  Patrol      75 
(In  London  Spectator,  vol.  116). 

L.,  D.O. 
At    Sea 165 

("Songs  of  a  Subaltern,"  Chapman  and 
Hall,  Ltd.,  Lond.,  1915). 

Lee,    Sergt.  Joseph    (ist  Co.,  4th   Battalion, 
Black  Watch) 

Four   Rye   Sheaves 132 

(In  Spectator,  vol.  117). 


INDEX       OF      AUTHORS  213 

PAGE 

Lee,   Sergt.   Joseph    (ist   Co.,  4th   Battalion, 
Black  Watch) — Continued. 

My  Rifle 43 

Tommy  and  Fritz 143 

("Ballads  of  Battle,"  John  Murray,  Lend., 
1916). 

L.  L. 

The   Graves   of   Gallipoli 178 

(See  "Anzac  Book"). 

Lyon,  W.  S.  S. 

Easter  at  Ypres:   1915 I53 

Lines  Written  in  a   Fire  Trench     ....       72 
I  Tracked  a  Dead  Man  Down  a  Trench     .     186 
("Easter     at     Ypres     191 5     and     Other 
Poems,"     James     Maclehose     &     Sons, 
Glasg.,  1916). 

Macartney,  Lieut.  C.  A. 

Ballad   of   a    Cathedral    Close 127 

("Poems,"  Erskine  MacDonald). 

MAcGit^L,  Patrick 

In   the  Morning 81 

Before  the  Charge 78 

Letters 61 

Matey 203 

("Soldier  Songs,"  E.  P.  Dutton  and  Com- 
pany, N.  Y.,  191 7). 

IVIcCrae,  Lieut.  Col.  John 

In  Flanders  Fields 183 

(Punch,  December  8,  1915.) 

N.,  C.J. 

Marching   Song 40 

Hill  60        .     .     . 135 

(See  "Anzac  Bcok"). 


214  INDEX       OF      AUTHORS 

PAGB 

Nesbitt,  H.  a.  (M.A.) 
Neuve  Chapelle  1915 79 

1915 152 

("Neuve  Chapelle  and  Other  Poems," 
Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  Trubner  and  Com- 
pany, Lond.,  1916). 

Nichols,  Robert 
Sonnet — "Look  Up,   O   Stricken  Eyes  that 

Long  Have  Pored" 171 

("Invocation;  War  Poems  and  Others," 
Elkin  Mathews,  Lond.,  1915). 

"Observer,  R.F.C." 

A   Song  of  the  Air 16 

Two   Pictures 18 

("Oxford  and  Flanders,"  B.  H.  Clackwell, 
Oxford,  1916). 

R.  M., 

The  Happy  Warrior 46 

The  Unburied 181 

(See  "Anzac  Book"). 

S ARSON,  H.   Sm ALLEY   (Private  1st  Canadian 
Contingent) 

To   Sister  E.   W 138 

("Field  and  Hospital,"  Erskine  MacDon- 
ald,  Ltd.,  Lond.). 

ScoTT,  Frederick  George   (ist  Canadian  Di- 
vision, B.  E.  F.) 

A  Grave  in  Flanders 191 

("In  the  Battle  Silences :  Poems  Written 
at  the  Front,"  Constable  and  Company, 
Lond.,  1916). 


indkx     of    authors  -15 

PAGE 

Seeger,  Alan 
I   Have  a   Rendezvous  with   Death     .     .     .     174 
("Poems,"    Copyright   by   Charles    Scrib- 
ner's  Sons,  N.  Y.,  1916). 

Service,  Robert  W. 

The  Volunteer 10 

Wounded 100 

("Rhymes  of  a  Red  Cross  Man,"   Barse 
and  Hopkins,  N.  Y.,  1917). 

Shakespeare,  William  G. 

The  Cathedral I55 

("Ypres  and  Other  Poems,"  Sidgwick  and 
Jackson,  Ltd.,  Lend.,  1916). 

Sprent,  Captain  James    (A.M.C,  3rd  Field 
Amb.) 

Our  Fathers 161 

A  Confession  of  Faith 167 

(See  "Anzac  Book"). 

Steele,  Howard 

The  Men  Behind  the  Tube 22 

("Cleared  for  Action,"  T.  Fisher  Unwin, 
Lond.,  1914). 

Stewart,  Capt.  J.  E,  (M.  C.) 
Envoy 136 

("Grapes  of  Thorns,"   Erskine  MacDon- 
ald,  Ltd.,  Lond.,  1917). 

Streets,  Sergt.  J.  W.  (13th  Batt.  York  Reg't) 

At  Dawn  in  France 121 

A  Lark  Above  the  Trenches 131 

"Go  Tell  Yon  Shadow  Stalking  'neath  the 

Trees" 173 

("The  Undying  Splendour,"  Erskine  Mac- 
Donald,  Ltd.,  Lond.,  1917). 


2l6  INDEX      OF      AUTHORS 

PACK 

TiPLADY,  Rev.  Thomas  (Chaplain) 
Prayer  for  our  Armies  at  the  Front     .     .     .    205 
("In    the    Trenches    and    Other   Poems," 
Hemel  Hempstead,  1916). 

Turner,  Corp.  Jack 
"Fags" 48 

(Copyright  by  The  Imperial  Tobacco  Co., 
Newfoundland), 

Waterhouse,  Lieut.  Gilbert 

Sonnet 207 

("Railhead,"  Erskine  MacDonald,  Ltd., 
Lond.,  1916). 

Westbrook,  Frank  E.   (Gunner  4th  Battery, 
2nd  Brigade,  Australian  Field  Artillery). 

'     The   Boys   Out   There 139 

Brown  Eyes — Song 134 

"Goodbye" — Evacuation  of  Gallipoli  191 5     .     199 
("Anzac  and  After,"   Duckworth  &  Co., 
Lond.,  1916). 

Whiting-Baker,  2nd  Lieut.  H.  E. 
At  Night-Tide 169 

(In  "Made  in  the  Trenches,"  Articles  and 
Sketches  contributed  by  Soldiers,  Geo. 
Allen  and  Unwin,  Ltd.,  Lond.,  1916). 

Wilkinson,   Eric   Fitzwater    (M.  C.   Lieut. 
West  Yorks-Leeds  Rifles) 

Memories 193 

Twentieth  Century  Civilization   .....       85 
("Sunrise    Dreams    and    Other    Poems," 
Erskine  MacDonald,  Ltd.,  Lond.) 

WoDEHOusE,  E.  A.  (2nd  Lieut.,  Scots  Guards) 

Next  Morning .     118 

(In  Fortnightly  Review). 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 


A  few  clouds  float  across  the  grand  blue  sky    .  34 

A  peculiar  stench  is  the  smell  of  the  trench  .     .  57 

A  signal  flutters  at  the  Flagship's  fore    ...  20 

Above  the  distant  skyline  by  degrees   ....  36 

All  night  the  tall  trees  over-head 191 

As  after  the  rains 26 

As  some    far   sw^immer,   turning,   views   once 

more 135 

Before  me  on  the  crown 127 

Blow  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  dead !    .     .  176 

Boots,  belt,  rifle,  and  pack 40 

By  all  the  glories  of  the  day 163 

Come,  friend,  and  swim.     We  may  be  better 

then 38 

Coming  in  splendor  thro'  the  golden  gate  .  .  .  207 
Close  behind  a  wall  of  sandbags,  covered  up 

with  yellow  mud 92 

Dawn 18 

Dawn  o'  day  and  birds  a-singing 13 

Farewell !  the  village  leaning  to  the  hill  .  .  .  150 
Five  men  over  the  parapet,  with  a  one-star  loot 

in  charge 75 

217 


2l8      INDEX      OF      FIRST       LINES 


Four  rye  sheaves  to  be  my  bed 132 

Go  tell  yon  shadow  stalking  'neath  the  trees    . 

He  hides  behind  his  sand-bag  .  

Here  lies  a  clerk  who  half  his  life  had  spent .     . 
Hope  and  mirth  are  gone.    Beauty  is  departed 
Hushed  is  the  shriek  of  hurtling  shells;  and 
hark !......         .  . 


of  an 


I  am  only  a  cog  in  a  giant  machine,  a  link 
endless  chain  .     .  .     . 

I'd  rather  clean  a  bayonet  from  the  scarlet  stain 
upon  it    ...     .         .     . 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  death  . 

I'm  the  soldier's  surest  friend  .     .     . 

I  meet  with  the  boys  and  the  gay  toasts  pass 

I  saw  you  fooling  often  in  the  tents 

I  tracked  a  dead  man  down  a  trench 

H  I  should  die,  think  this  of  me  .     . 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow  . 

In  my  sandy  dug-out  by  the  sea  .     . 

Is  it  not  strange  ?    A  year  ago  today 

It  has  come  to  the  last  and  it's  good-by,  Bill 

Look  up,  O  stricken  eyes  that  long  have  pored 

Night  after  night,  day  after  day  .    .    . 

Night  on  the  plains,  and  the  stars  unfold 

No  Man's  Land  is  an  eerie  sight .     .     . 

Not  comin'  back  tonight,  Matey  ,     .     . 


173 
143 
197 

155 

131 

31 

141 
174 
43 
139 
157 
186 

159 
183 
46 
100 
199 
171 
112 
121 

203 


INDEX      OF      FIRST      LINES  219 

PAGE 

Now  snowflakes  thickly  falling  in  the  winter 

breeze 181 

O  Lord  of  Hosts,  Whose  mighty  arm  ....  205 

O  mystical  and  magical  moon 185 

Oh  !  two  brown  eyes  where  love-lit  shadows 

swim 134 

Oh !  we  are  a  ragged,  motley  crew 5 

Once  more  sits  Mahomet  by  Helles'  marges  .     .  146 

Only  if  I  am  remembered 136 

Sez  I :   My  Country  Calls  ?    Well,  let  it  call    .  10 

So  lie  you  low,  and  watch  the  rise 74 

Star-shells  rising  all  around  us  .....    .  70 

The  battleship,  she  rules  the  seas   .....  22 

The  darkling  night,  crowning  the  aery  vault  .  165 

The  firefly  haunts  were  lighted  yet  ...     .  81 

The  herdman  wandering  by  the  lonely  rills  .     .  178 

The  hot  wax  drips  from  the  flares 28 

The  laggard  hours  drift  slowly  by 124 

The  Morning  Star  is  fading  from  our  sight .     .  79 

The  night  is  still,  and  the  air  is  keen  ....  78 

The  Sacred  Head  was  bound  and  diapered  .    .  153 

The  tall  pines  tower  gauntly 193 

There  came  a  pudding  from  Peter's  people  .    .  59 

There's  a  roar  like  a  thousand  hells  set  free    .  85 

This  is  indeed  a  false,  false  night 172 

This  is  the  song  of  the  blooming  trench  ...  I 


220      INDEX       OF       YIRST      LINES 

PAGE 

This  is  the  song  of  the  Plane i6 

'Tis  midnight,  and  above  the  hollow  trench  .     .  72 

Today  the  sun  shines  bright 118 

We  had  a  little  set-back 107 

We  hear  him  daily,  far  too  soon 14 

We're  only  in  the  ordience 54 

We  talked  together  in  the  days  gone  by  .     .     .  189 
We  were  eating  chip  potatoes  underneath  the 

April  stars 52 

Well,  boy,  you're  off  to  war 95 

Wandering  spirits,  seeking  lands  unknown  .     .  161 
When  all  the  dalliance  days  of  youth-time  are 

agone 169 

When  I  come  home,  dear  folk  o'  mine   .    .    .  129 
When  stand-to  hour  is  over,  we  leave  the  par- 
apet             .....  61 

When  the  cold  is  making  ice  cream  of  the  mar- 
row in  your  bones 48 

Where  war  has  left  its  wake  of  whitened  bone  208 

Who  would  remember  me  were  I  to  die  .     .     .  167 

Year  of  high  hope  and  disappointment  deep  .    .  152 

You  are  standing  watch  in  hand 89 

You  gave  me  a  white  carnation 138 

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